The First Time
by chazper
Summary: A series of Ryan Atwood “first time” ficlets. Episode 11. Ryan's First Drink. Characters property of Josh and company.
1. Default Chapter

**Ryan, Trey and all the Atwoods belong to Schwarz and Company. Tony and his mother are mine.**

**The First Time**

**Chapter 1: A Best Friend**

The first time Ryan had a best friend, he was in the third grade.

Tony Riccio was the only other boy in the class as short as Ryan, but he was as dark as Ryan was fair, as talkative as Ryan was quiet. On the first day of school, Tony plopped down next to Ryan at recess, pulled out half a dozen hot wheels, and launched into a torrent of words that sucked Ryan into their current and swept him away. It was as if Tony didn't even realize that they were strangers, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation.

Ryan liked that. He didn't have a lot to say himself, but he loved to listen.

For seven months after that the two boys were nearly inseparable. They spent most of their time outside, riding their bikes to the playground, popping wheelies over the curbs, joining makeshift soccer games that had no rules except play to win. If Ryan and Tony were inside, they were almost always at the Riccio house, in the bedroom that Tony didn't have to share because he was the only boy in the family. Tony didn't have a dad—or at least, he only had one on alternate weekends—but Ryan liked his house. It was quiet and neat and there were never any surprises, except nice ones sometimes, like cupcakes when it wasn't even anybody's birthday.

Mrs. Riccio always topped her cupcakes with thick, buttery frosting. Ryan would lick it off, very slowly, dreading the moment when the icing disappeared and his tongue would touch the flat surface of the cake. The cake itself tasted good too, but reaching it meant that the best part was over, and soon there would be nothing left but crumbs.

Ryan's mom only made cupcakes once that he could remember. She discovered too late that she didn't have enough sugar so the frosting was almost transparent, and didn't even reach the fluted ends of the paper holders. The cake itself had a sad, powdery taste, and it fell apart before Ryan could even bite into it.

Ryan and Tony almost never went to the cluttered Atwood house. It was rarely neat and usually throbbing with noise—the radio or television blasting, voices screaming. The yelling always made Ryan cringe, even when it wasn't directed at him. He would scuff his feet with embarrassment, darting a sideways glance at Tony, who would grin and say something like "Man, Ryan, wild! Your house sounds just like a cartoon."

Ryan liked Tony for at least pretending that the chaos was funny, and only threatening in an ineffectual Elmer Fudd kind of way.

As bad as the noise could be, the occasional quiet at the Atwood house was worse. It usually meant something unpleasant had happened, something with consequences that would sting or burn afterwards—maybe somebody missing, like when Ryan's dad disappeared for two weeks, or Trey ran away, or maybe whoever was home had passed out.

That was the reason for the quiet the morning after Ryan's dad was taken away in handcuffs. Ryan's mom lay slumped on the sofa in her slip, her hair matted, dry spittle flaking in the corners of her mouth. Trey shook her shoulder roughly while Ryan watched, wincing in sympathy, but his mom simply groaned and sank deeper into the scratchy cushions.

"Fuck," Trey muttered, rubbing a grimy hand through his unwashed hair. He'd already checked. There was practically no food in the house, and the coffee can where their Dad sometimes kept spare change was empty too. "Lot of good she is. Okay, Ryan. Grab your stuff. I'll take you over to Tony's place."

Ryan could tell that Trey was pissed, so he said nothing, even though his mind churned with a hundred questions. He just hitched up the strap of his too-heavy backpack and followed Trey outside, trying to keep up and to stay out of the way of his feet, which seemed to kick fiercely at anything in sight.

Trey gave Ryan a push to speed him up the walk to the Riccio front door. "Listen, if they let you, you spend the night here, okay, Ryan? Give Mom a chance to sober up and get used to our fuckass dad being gone."

Ryan nodded solemnly, and filed away "fuckass" for use in the future. "Ass" was currently Trey's favorite word. Ryan was impressed with the number of variations he created, just by attaching different prefixes.

At the Riccio door, Ryan froze. He suddenly realized that it was a school day. Tony wouldn't even be home. Without Tony there, Ryan had no idea what to say to Mrs. Riccio. His mouth went dry at the thought of explaining that his father had been arrested, his mom had passed out, and that he needed . . . what? Someplace to hide? Someplace safe where he could just be?

He really needed his best friend. Ryan needed Tony to hear the news, grow wide-eyed and crow "Wow! Wild! Real cop cars and everything, Ryan? Just like on TV!"

Then they could eat cereal and lie on their stomachs on the living room floor, and Ryan could pretend that at the end of an hour—maybe two, if it was a movie—his family's problems would be solved, the way they always were on television shows.

"Ryan!" Trey's voice slapped him from behind, sharp as an open palm. "Ring the damn bell, lameass."

"But Tony won't be home, Trey. He's in school. Maybe I should just go there."

"Two hours late? Lookin' like that?" Trey scoffed. "Somebody would say something for sure. You want social services to take you away, Ryan?"

Ryan glanced down at his stained and torn t-shirt. It was the same one he'd worn yesterday, and he had wanted to change, but he couldn't find anything clean in his drawer. His nails were bitten to the quick, and both arms were circled with vivid bruises where his mom had grabbed and held him last night to keep him from chasing after the police car. Her own fury—at the police, her husband, the whole situation—had surged through her hands and imprinted itself on Ryan's skin. When she had finally released him, she did it so abruptly that Ryan fell forward, slicing his temple on a bike pedal. He had put a Band-Aid on the wound himself, but it didn't quite cover the jagged edges.

"Ryan!" Trey yelled again. His voice was changing, and the word emerged in a deep, familiar growl that startled Ryan and made him spin around suddenly, looking, in fear or in hope, for his father. All he saw was Trey, squinting in the midmorning light, twitching with impatience to be gone.

Ryan chewed his lip in shame. "Maybe I could just sit out here and wait till Tony gets home from school," he suggested. "Then we could go inside together."

"You're gonna wait another four hours with nothin' to eat 'cause you're afraid to ring a damn doorbell? Jeez, you're such a baby, Ryan. What? I gotta do everything for you?" Trey marched up the walk, pressed the doorbell three times in quick succession, and then added an insistent knock for good measure.

From inside the house Ryan heard a nervous, "What on earth?" The door opened a crack and Tony's mom peered out. "What on earth?" she said again, before stepping through the door, almost shutting it behind her. "Ryan Atwood. What are you doing here?"

Ryan ground the toe of one shoe into the welcome mat. "I . . .um . . ." he whispered. "Mrs. Riccio, I . . ." He wasn't used to her flat, forbidding tone. Usually Tony's mom sounded indulgent, even affectionate, and she called him "hon," or "baby," not "Ryan Atwood."

"Why aren't you in school?" she demanded. Then she took in his bruises and unkempt appearance, and her eyes seemed to change. "Where is your mother, Ryan?"

"Um . . . home?" he answered uncertainly.

Mrs. Riccio folded her lips and sighed deeply.

Trey had waited long enough. "Look, Mrs. Ric. Can Ryan stay here today? I can come get him later—or tomorrow, maybe."

"It's a school day."

"Jeez!" Trey exploded. "Does it look like he can go to school? Look, Ryan is Tony's best friend. Can't he just hang out here? It's kinda . . . weird at home today. But it'll be okay tomorrow, so if Ryan can just stay here until then . . ."

Ryan peered at Trey from under his shaggy bangs, looking hopefully for signs that Trey believed what he was saying. He wasn't. Ryan recognized the bravado in Trey's scowl, and he realized that tomorrow was just a code word for "never."

Ryan swallowed hard, knowing that he was too old to cry. "I'll stay out of your way, Mrs. Riccio," he promised. "Or if you maybe need me to do something . . ."

Mrs. Riccio sighed again. When she spoke, she sounded as though her warm chocolate voice had chilled, and a film had formed on top of it. "I'm sorry, Ryan. You're a very nice boy, but I heard what your father did and . . . well, it would be best if you and Tony didn't play together anymore. You go on home now." Behind her back, her hand turned the knob of her door, and she started to retreat inside.

Ryan's eyes opened wide and he blinked rapidly. "But . . ." he whispered. Then he stopped, because he wouldn't beg, and anyway, any more words would come out caught in a sob.

Nodding, his gaze locked on the worn welcome mat, Ryan turned to go, but Trey blocked his way.

"Fuck you anyway, lady," he snarled.

Ryan stiffened, and behind him he could hear Mrs. Riccio's irate gasp. "Young man . . ."

Trey pulled Ryan close, almost yanking him off of his feet. "Think your fatass self is better than other people? Huh? Just 'cause our dad got arrested, you decide Ryan's not good enough to play with your kid?"

"You cannot speak to me that way."

Ryan no longer recognized Mrs. Riccio's face or voice. She had become a stranger, someone who clearly did not want to know him. He plucked at Trey's jacket, trying to tug him off the porch, but Trey swatted his fingers away and stood his ground.

"You know what? Screw you, lady. For your information, my little brother is smart and . . . and good, and a hell of a lot better than anybody else your sorryass son could hang around with."

Trey looped his arm around Ryan's shoulders, half-hugging him as they walked away, every other step of Ryan's a skip to keep up with his brother's long strides. He felt all muddy inside, fear and admiration and gratitude and shame all roiled around together into a dark sticky mass that his stomach ache and his breath catch in his throat.

Then they turned the corner, out of sight of the Riccio house. Trey immediately dropped Ryan's arm, and cuffed him on the back of the head.

"You stay away from that place, Ryan. Dumb shitass family."

"But Tony's my best friend."

Trey glowered and pulled out one of his contraband cigarettes, lighting it and flicking the match over his shoulder . "Not any more, stupid. Anyway, we're gonna be moving out of this punkass city. Mom said. Start over somewhere else."

Ryan nodded, but he hardly heard what Trey said about moving.

Tony wasn't his best friend anymore.

"Trey?" he asked softly, and then realized that Trey was already disappearing down the street, leaving him alone. "Trey! Wait up!"

"Gimme a break, Ryan. I got things to do," Trey said gruffly. He walked backwards, never slowing his pace. "Grown-up things. Can't babysit you all the time. Look, I'll catch up with you later."

"But Trey, where am I supposed to go?"

Trey shrugged. "Don't know." Unspoken was "Don't care." "You'll find someplace. Just, I don't know, meet me at the park. I'll be there sometime after dark." He stopped, blew out an exasperated breath and then trotted back to Ryan. "Here," he said, thrusting two tattered dollar bills in his hand. "Get yourself something to eat. And wipe your nose, Ryan. Jeez. You're such a little bitch."

Shaking his head, Trey turned and took off at a run.

Ryan stood watching as his brother moved further away, growing smaller, more indistinct, until he vanished completely in the distance.

It was definite then. Ryan didn't have a best friend.


	2. 5 Stealing

The First Time, Episode 5: Stealing

All disclaimers apply. Thanks for the feedback.

**5. Stealing**

The first time Ryan stole anything, he, Trey and Dawn had just spent their first Christmas in Chino, their first Christmas without Ryan's dad.

In many ways, it was the last holiday of Ryan's childhood.

Dawn had pinned all her hopes on the move to Chino, which was supposed to make any problems leftover from Fresno just disappear. Like magic, maybe, Ryan thought. But it didn't work.

Nothing worked.

Those first few weeks, when they knew no one and had nowhere to go, the house in Chino seemed to shrink and grow shabbier every day. The walls pressed in on them, pushing Trey and Ryan and Dawn together until they were all chafed raw from the contact, the collision of their constant and conflicting needs. They bruised each other, and the wounds wouldn't scab over, refused to heal. They began to fester, and Ryan felt it all creeping back—the fear and despair and anger that followed his father's arrest.

Then, around the end of September, Trey swaggered home wheeling a battered bicycle.

"Put on a new chain, tighten a few screws, and I am outta this shitass place, Ry," he announced, spinning a pedal around ferociously.

Ryan cringed a little, imagining Trey riding off without him. He scraped a spot of rust off the back fender, stopping abruptly when a hole opened under his nail. "Where'd you get it, Trey?" he asked, covering the spot with his thumb.

Trey's answer was vague. He just muttered something about "trading with some kid," but even though Ryan wondered, a little enviously, what Trey had owned that was valuable enough to barter for a bike, Dawn just shrugged.

"Good," she said flatly. "Maybe now you'll stay out of my way and stop your goddamn bitching."

"Hey," Trey snapped. "Anytime you stop, I will too. Mom."

It frightened Ryan, how much venom Trey could inject into one little word.

Amazingly, Dawn's mood mellowed shortly afterwards. She found a job working the register at the local grocery store, and the security of a steady paycheck made her giddy for weeks.

"And first dibs on all the specials, kids! Little employee bonus there!" Triumphantly Dawn flourished a precooked chicken and a bag of donuts on her first double coupon day. She unpinned her employee I.D. and tossed it to Ryan. "Whattya think, baby? I took a pretty great picture, didn't I?"

Ryan looked at Dawn's photo, all eager eyes and wide smile, her blonde hair ruffled around her face like an aureole. He blinked, his mouth trembling. "You're beautiful, Mom," he said, voice thick with the truth.

"You bet I am," Dawn agreed happily. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you know what, Ry? You look just like me."

Something flashed across Trey's face, some flicker of hurt that made Ryan feel guilty and scared, but his brother said nothing. He just stuffed a donut into his mouth, taking the rest of the bag with him as he left.

Dawn's employment gave the family a brief reprieve. Inevitably, though, her euphoria dissolved. It couldn't last, not under the pressure of shrill five a.m. alarms, sticky uniforms, and customers who pointedly made her count their change twice. Still, Ryan got used to his mom being sober, relatively content; he liked knowing what to expect when he opened the door, not having to hold his breath and brace himself before stepping inside.

But then, around Halloween, the old Atwood luck, barely disguised at all, reappeared.

Trey's bike was stolen leaving him, as he grumbled bitterly, "fucking stuck here with you, Ry." A power failure one ninety-degree day spoiled everything in the refrigerator when Dawn left the door open after her last trip for beer. Ryan caught the mumps, but with no sick days of her own and no health insurance, Dawn sent him to school anyway. A social worker brought Ryan home, then waited to lecture his mom, using ominous phrases like "child neglect" and "foster care."

Worst of all, the day before Thanksgiving, when her register tally came up $86 short, Dawn lost her job.

By the time tinny carols began playing in supermarkets, Ryan knew not to expect any real celebration, but he still hoped they could observe the holiday somehow. After all, even though his mom had trashed most of their possessions when they moved, she hadn't thrown out the old decorations. They were stored on a shelf in the house's sole closet. Ryan made Trey drag down the tattered cardboard box, putting it just inside the front door as a wordless hint.

"Junk," Dawn pronounced in disgust when she saw it. She toed the lid off with her bare foot, staring down at the bedraggled wreath, the chipped ornaments. "Why the hell did I bother bringing that crap? Shit. I musta been drunk."

Trey rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Mom," he drawled. "Ya think?"

After that, Dawn just eyed the box balefully and shoved it into a corner where it sat, lopsided and water-stained, mocking Ryan with tiny, chiming sounds whenever someone bumped into it.

His mother bumped into it a lot. She had been drinking practically nonstop since losing her job. Ryan avoided looking into her eyes; they were empty and haunted and the ghosts inside them kept reaching for him.

He and Trey were watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" when Dawn arrived home from a one-day temp position. The boys heard a series of slams—the car, the kitchen door, the bathroom probably, the refrigerator. Finally Dawn emerged, swigging something from a coffee cup, and collapsed onto the couch, her ankle bracelet jingling as she crossed her legs.

Ryan, made bold by the cartoon miracle and the fact that his mother wasn't holding a bottle, scooted over to cuddle next to her. Before he even opened his mouth, he could see Trey shaking his head, but he had to ask anyway.

"Mom? Do you think maybe we could put up a tree?" When Dawn's eyes narrowed, Ryan added wistfully, "We had one last year. Remember?"

"Yeah? Well, this isn't last year. Besides, we don't have a tree, Ry. And what's the point anyway? It's not like you still believe in Santa or anything, right?"

Ryan ignored Trey who was muttering something in a low, caustic voice. "No, I know, but . . ."

"Look," Dawn snorted, "I'm sorry the old one got lost when we moved—fuck, baby, I'm sorry about a lot of things--but I ain't wastin' money on a damned tree. Look around, Ry. You see all the things we don't have?"

From his spot sprawled on the floor, Trey rolled his eyes significantly. "Yeah, right, mom, 'cause it's real easy to see things that aren't there. Now if you want Ry to hallucinate, why don't you just give him some of that badass 'coffee' you're drinking . . ."

Dawn sketched a threat in the air with her cigarette. "Don't be a smartmouth, Trey. And don't go givin' your little brother ideas." She sighed and held out a shaky hand to Ryan, pulling him until he was perched precariously, half on her knee, half straining to touch the ground. "Look, baby, I know you want a, whaddya call it? Tradgish . . . tradiss . . ." Her breath hissed against Ryan's cheek. He shrank from the stench and Dawn amended, enunciating carefully, "traditional Christmas, but I can't do it. I can't."

"It doesn't have to be big," Ryan suggested hopefully. "Just maybe a real, real little one?"

"What? You think the little ones are free? They still cost money, Ry. Shit, we got three chairs in the whole lousy house, no kitchen table, you boys keepin' your clothes in goddamn boxes on the floor. If your sonofabitch father . . ." Suddenly furious, Dawn shoved Ryan away. "Look, I just can't afford a damn tree, all right? I don't wanna hear another word about it."

"Sorry, Mom," Ryan whispered. He darted a glance up, desolate eyes glistening for a moment and then veiled under lowered lashes. "It was a stupid idea. I know there's, you know, important stuff. That we need."

"Damned right," Dawn agreed. She downed the rest of her drink and headed unsteadily into the bathroom.

"Merry fucking Christmas," Trey mumbled. "And a craptastic New Year."

His voice sounded fierce, but when Ryan looked down, Trey's mouth was crumpled, his expression hollow and lost.

Ryan dropped on the floor next to his brother, not touching him, but sitting as close as he dared. "It could still be good, Trey," he said softly. "She doesn't drink all the time . . ."

"Right," Trey scoffed. "Not when she's fucking asleep, she doesn't." He rolled over, propping his head up on a clenched fist, glaring at Ryan. "Give it up, kid. Mom's a lost cause. And so's this lameass holiday."

Ryan bit his lip. "But maybe you and I could . . ." he began weakly, and then stopped, unsure what he and Trey could do to save anything. He pulled his knees up, hugging them to his chest, rocking back and forth.

Trey watched him for a moment, and then put a hand on Ryan's back, halting the motion. "Quit it, Ry," he growled. "You're makin' me seasick."

Ryan stopped obediently, leaning his weight back into Trey's palm. "Seasick? How do you know?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "Have you ever been on a boat, Trey?"

"No, I've never been-on-a-boat-Trey. Don't be a smartass, Ryan. So maybe you're not makin' me seasick. You're still makin' me regular sick." Trey snatched his hand away and Ryan, suddenly without support, toppled over backwards. His head smacked the floor, and a cry of pain escaped before he could choke it back.

The bathroom door jerked open and Dawn's angry, ashen face peered through the crack. "What the hell happened now?" she demanded. "You kids break somethin' out here?"

"No," Ryan answered immediately. He sat up, swallowing tears, attempting a half-smile that his mother didn't notice. "Nothing's wrong, Mom. We didn't break anything."

"'Course not. What do we got left to break anyway?" Dawn scoffed. She rubbed her sleeve across her nose and shuffled back into the bathroom.

Trey waited until his mother closed the door and then curled an arm around Ryan, carding through strands of baby-fine hair to probe the back of his head.

"No blood," he reported, his voice rough with mingled relief and remorse. "But you're gonna have a bump there, Ry. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just messin' around."

"I know," Ryan whispered. "It's okay."

Trey ducked his head to meet Ryan's downcast eyes. For once, his own face was honest, unguarded. "Nothin's okay, little brother. Shit, I know that . . . You want me to get you some ice?" He scrambled to his feet and started toward the kitchenette before stopping abruptly. "Right, ice. Like we'd fucking have any left after Mom's been on a bender like this . . . I don't know, maybe some frozen peas or something?" He opened the freezer, peered inside, slammed the door shut. Ryan winced at the sound.

"Big surprise. Nothin' there," Trey announced.

Ryan hunched his shoulders. "It doesn't matter, Trey. Honest, it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Yeah, right. You're such a bad liar, Ry." Trey pushed against the wall, sliding down until he was huddled on the floor. "Fuck, I'm really sorry, kid."

Ryan crept over, put a tentative hand on his brother's foot. "It's okay," he insisted, parroting Trey's own excuse. "You didn't mean to hurt me. You were just messing around . . . Trey? About Christmas?"

Trey sighed. "What about it?"

"You want it too, right Trey?" Ryan's voice was small and worried. "I mean a tree, and . . . you know? Just . . . what other people have." His eyes locked on his brother's, pleading, and he held his breath.

If Trey abandoned the idea of a Christmas, there was no hope.

"Shit, Ry, it doesn't matter what we want," Trey said heavily. "When are you gonna learn that? We've got to deal with what we fucking have . . . And that's pretty much nothing."

Ryan exhaled, defeated. "I guess . . . So, we should probably put away the decorations then, huh?"

Trey closed his eyes, slumping further into himself. "I suppose. Look, I just . . . you do it, Ry, okay?"

Ryan's fingers plucked at the frayed ends of Trey's shoelaces. "Okay," he agreed slowly, flushing with embarrassment. "Except . . . I can't reach the top of the closet to put it back, Trey. But maybe if I stand on a chair . . ."

Trey's hand grabbed Ryan's wrist as he started to get up, almost jerking him off his feet. "You stand on a chair holdin' that box, you'll fall and kill yourself. You wanna fucking kill yourself, Ry?"

"No." Ryan shook his head, confused. "But you said . . ."

"I know what I said, okay?" Trey burst out. "Shit, Ry, gimme a break. If you hadn't begged me to get the damn box down in the first place . . ."

"I just thought if Mom saw the decorations . . ." Ryan explained. Then he frowned and added firmly, "And anyway, I didn't beg. I never beg, Trey."

Trey groaned and released Ryan's wrist. "Not with words. But your eyes do, Ry. Just . . . don't look at me anymore, all right? I'll put the damn box away later."

Ryan nodded, furtively rubbing his wrist, knowing that "later" could mean any time from that afternoon until never.

The box remained where it was, a constant target for Dawn's feet and frustration. It was still sitting there on Christmas night.

Ryan looked around the living room at the remnants of their celebration: Dawn slumped on the couch, one hand dangling to the floor, the holiday polish—striped red and green—already peeling from her fingernails; Trey by the open window, one knee pulled up, smoking; three piles of presents. Trey's was messy, a scramble of items from the church charity drive—sensible things like sweaters and socks, identical except in size to the ones Ryan received. Buried underneath was Trey's gift from Dawn. She had bought him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure, discounted because it wasn't popular anymore, although it had been three years ago, about the same time that Trey actually wanted one.

Moments after opening the box, Trey snapped off one of the arms, using it to poke holes in the wrapping paper.

Ryan had stacked his own gifts, largest to smallest, shaping the boxes into a kind of tree. On top was Dawn's gift, a small Lego set that would build a bulldozer.

"Thanks, Mom," he said softly when he opened it. His arms lifted from his sides tentatively, ready to offer his mother a hug, but she waved him away.

"Why don't you go ahead and say it, Ry? Like your brother did. It's a lousy present, right?"

Ryan shook his head, but his mother's eyes, red-rimmed, barely open, were fixed on Trey.

"I never said my present was lousy," Trey growled.

"Yeah, that's right," Dawn conceded. "You never said anything. You just fucking broke it, that's all!"

"Because it's for a baby! I'm not a baby, Mom!"

"No? You're all grown up, huh? Too goddamn grown-up to even be grateful. You know, Trey, I tried . . . Well, who needs you anyway? I still got Ryan." Dawn reached over blindly and twisted her fingers into his hair. "You'll always be my good boy, right, baby? You'll always love me."

Ryan's breath quickened and he felt his muscles tense. "We both love you, Mom. Trey and me . . . we both do."

He willed his brother to agree, but Trey just shrugged, and the house filled with the echo of words no one quite believed.

Dawn's own tiny pile held just two presents—a small vial of cheap perfume that Trey had shoplifted, confiding to Ryan that the big bottle he wanted wouldn't fit in his pocket, and a picture frame Ryan had made from painted Popsicle sticks. He had tried to find a picture to put inside—maybe even one with his Dad—but he couldn't unearth any photos at all, even though he looked everywhere except in his mother's underwear drawer.

Maybe the family pictures had been lost along with their Christmas tree when the Atwoods left Fresno.

The frame looked lonely to Ryan, holding nothing at all. At the last minute, desperate, he cut out a picture from a magazine--Harrison Ford, his mom's favorite actor--and glued it inside. "Real sweet, Ry. Thanks," Dawn had murmured when she opened the box, but her tone was perfunctory, drifting into a sigh. She had tossed the gift aside almost instantly, and she had never smiled. Not even once.

Miracles and Christmas magic, Ryan decided, even the littlest ones—they only happened in stories. Not in real life.

Picking up his Lego set, Ryan started for bed. He made a cautious circle around the abandoned ornament box, wondering if Trey might finally put it away, wishing he were tall enough to do it himself, berating himself for ever wanting it down.

The carton was still sitting there in the morning when, before six a.m., Dawn yanked Ryan out of bed and onto his feet. He blinked, dazed, at Trey who stood bleary-eyed and rumpled behind her, covers from his bed twisted around his feet.

"Okay, kids, let's go. Get dressed." An edge of agitation cut through Dawn's voice, and one hand thrummed restlessly against her thigh. She licked the palm of the other and used it to slick down Ryan's hair. "Come on, come on, come on. Move it, you two."

"Mom," Trey groaned. "The fuck? It's like the middle of the night."

"Yeah? Well, blame your brother. Ry wants a Christmas tree? Fine, Ry gets a goddamn Christmas tree."

Ryan's eyes, frightened, darted to his brother.

"Shit, Ry," Trey said, shrugging helplessly. "I don't know."

Dawn threw a t-shirt at Ryan who automatically peeled off his pajama top and put it on. "We're gonna hit the after-Christmas sales," she explained. "I bet . . . I bet we can get one of those really good trees, you know, the ones that even smell like . . . well, whatever the hell that tree smell is. The tall ones with the real full branches."

"But Mom," Ryan objected. His voice was small and careful. "Christmas is over."

"Well, kiddo, it's not like it won't come next year! And we'll be ready for it then, right? So let's move it! Come on. If we don't get there early, the only stuff left will be picked-over crap."

Dawn shoved Trey onto a chair, thrusting his battered hightops into his hands. "No shoes, no shirt, no service, Trey. I told you, get dressed."

Trey held the shoes, not moving. "How about this idea, Mom? You get dressed and go shopping or, shit, whatever, and Ry and I will go back to bed."

"And leave you two here alone?" Dawn laughed, a coarse, cheerless sound, and shook her head. "What the hell kind of a mother leaves her kids alone? Anyway, this will be fun! We'll shop, we'll go to Mickey D's for breakfast . . . Don't give me that look, Trey. You either, Ryan. I'm warning you . . . Shit, I try to do something nice for my kids and . . ."

"No, we're coming, Mom. Right, Trey?" Ryan's eyes flashed to his brother, then fell, remembering what Trey said about begging. "I mean, I'm coming," he amended.

"Fuck it," Trey groaned, shoving bare feet into his shoes. "I'm coming too."

When they arrived at the discount store, a mob of people was already pushing against the murky glass doors. Dawn elbowed her way into the center, and, lost in the crush, Ryan instinctively pressed closer to her, his shoulder brushing her thigh. Despite himself—because he knew no nine-year-old boy should cling to his mother—Ryan pinched a fold of her slacks between his fingers. The fabric was slick, and it slipped through his fingers as Dawn charged through the opened doors.

Ryan had to let go.

Dawn never noticed.

"Trey!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Grab me a cart. Jeez, Ry, would you hurry up? Oh hell, just meet me by the Christmas tree section."

Ryan watched as the store swallowed his mother, waited paralyzed until he heard the rattle of a shopping cart braking next to him.

"Get on," Trey ordered fiercely.

Ryan scrambled onto the front, hooking his feet onto the bottom shelf and facing his brother's scowl. "Fucking great," Trey mumbled, maneuvering heedlessly through the crowd, so that Ryan had to tighten his hold and offer silent apologies to the people they clipped along the way. "This is all your fault, Ry. Gotta have a goddamn Christmas. Gotta have a lameass tree. You gave Mom the shitass idea of dragging us out here with your whining . . ."

Trey swung blindly around a corner, ramming Ryan's side into a display of plastic reindeer.

"I didn't whine," Ryan argued. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hopped off the cart. "I don't. And I don't need to ride, Trey. I can walk."

"Suit yourself, little brother," Trey shrugged. "But if you get lost, don't fucking expect me to come find you."

Ryan glared at his brother's back as Trey pushed his way down the aisle. "I won't get lost," he muttered, trying to match his strides to Trey's. For a minute or two, he kept up, but the store was packed, and soon people blocked his view.

He couldn't see around them, couldn't see through them.

He couldn't see Trey at all anymore.

Ryan's steps faltered, then stopped altogether. Dawn had mentioned the Christmas tree section, he knew that, but everywhere he looked he saw the same holiday debris, garlands, lawn ornaments, wreaths, porch decorations, Santas and Rudolphs and snowmen, a jumble of cheap plastic and metal that made Ryan dizzy and a little bit sick.

He stood still, breathing hard, his eyes moving frantically around the store, searching for something familiar, something he could use to find his way.

And then Ryan saw it. On the shelf just over his head the last few figures from a ceramic Nativity set were arranged around an empty crèche: a camel, a shepherd, and the one he recognized, a diminutive, perfect porcelain angel.

Distantly, Ryan heard Trey calling for him, but he couldn't make himself move or answer as his brother approached.

"Shit, Ry!" Trey exclaimed impatiently. "You couldn't say something when you heard me yell? Mom picked out a tree. She sent me to find you, Mr. I-won't-get-lost. Jeez, you're more trouble than you're worth sometimes, you know that?"

"Uh-huh."

"The fuck?" Trey snapped his fingers in front of Ryan's rapt face, but Ryan's gaze never wavered. "Whaddya lookin' at, Ry?"

Careful not to touch, Ryan pointed a grubby finger at the fragile china figure. His eyes were wide, awestruck. "It looks like Mom," he breathed.

Trey squinted and then, as Ryan hovered protectively, his fist closed over the tiny ornament, bringing it close to his face. "Nah," he said, unconvinced. "Shit, Ry. Just because the thing's got blonde hair and blue eyes . . ." Trey studied the angel's gentle smile, the graceful curve of its inclined head, and his voice grew reedy and thin. "Mom never looked like that."

"Yes, she did," Ryan insisted. He chewed his lip, eyes growing dim with memory.

_A morning in the park, when he was maybe four. _

_His mom, sunny hair bouncing soft and loose on her shoulders, one hand clasping Trey's, the other holding Ryan's. All of them laughing, a sound like bells in the air, Dawn swinging their joined arms as their steps turned into skips, turned into an ecstatic run. _

_Ryan's own short legs stumbling, lifting off the ground, until all three of them tumbled breathless onto the still dewy grass._

_Dawn gathering Trey and Ryan close, rubbing her face into their necks, crooning "You are the best boys. I have the best, bestest boys in the whole, entire world from here to always." _

_The light behind Dawn making her glow, golden hair, golden skin, radiant smile, her eyes a forever blue, alive with love when Ryan looked up._

It wasn't possible that Trey could have forgotten.

"Remember, Trey?" Ryan pleaded, plucking at his brother's jacket. "She used to take us to the park and . . . and she'd laugh and run with us. She looked like this. Come on, Trey, you remember."

Trey snatched his arm out of Ryan's reach. "No," he said flatly. "I don't remember. And if you're smart as everybody says, Ry, you won't remember either."

"But--" Ryan began.

"Trey! Ryan! Get the hell over here! I don't got all day to wait for you guys. I'm ready to go. Now!"

Dawn stood at the end of the aisle, rocking the unsteady shopping cart. Her eyes were red-rimmed and the elastic had fallen out of her hair, which hung in limp strings around her face.

Trey turned to Ryan, shaking his head. He seemed about to say something else, but then he just jerked his thumb in Dawn's direction. "Let's go, Ry. Or shit, you know her. She'll probably just leave us here."

Ryan hesitated. His hand skimmed over the ornament one last time, memorizing its shape. Reluctantly, he started to follow Trey and his mother, his fingers trailing behind, unwilling to lose contact, when--it was as if the angel flew; Ryan was sure he did not pick it up, but there it was, light and delicate, lying on his palm. His small fist closed over it tenderly, the sharp points of the wings piercing his flesh deep enough to draw blood.

Ryan gasped, stunned by the enormity of what he'd done. He glanced around anxiously, but nobody was looking, nobody seemed to care at all.

And surely nobody would miss it, that one tiny angel abandoned on a shelf.

Trey was slouching against a display stand, idly gnawing his right thumb, and Dawn was picking through Christmas candles jumbled in a bin at the end of the check-out line. Ryan thought about asking if they could buy the ornament, but he already knew the answer, and he couldn't bear to hear his mother say no.

Maybe, he thought, he could take the angel now, and then come back and pay for it later. He could get the money somehow. It wouldn't take too long. But if he left it, Ryan was afraid something would happen: the figure was so fragile—someone would break it; or someone would buy it, and then just toss it aside; or maybe the worst thing of all: it would just disappear.

Shrinking behind a pillar Ryan shrugged off his jacket, dropping it over his arm. There was no way the angel would fit in his pocket, but if he could just cover it, he could walk out of the store the way he'd seen Trey do, relaxed and unhurried, with an expression that said he had no secrets to hide.

"Ryan!" Dawn flung the word over her shoulder impatiently. "C'mon, kiddo. We're about ready to leave here."

Ryan nodded and started toward her when a hand clamped tightly over his wrist and spun him around. Someone was holding him, pushing at his jacket, a large, unknown body blocking the light, and Ryan shrank into himself, his eyes panic-stricken, a sudden chill freezing him in place.

"All right, little boy," Ryan heard a voice order from somewhere above him. "Let go of whatever it is you're trying to steal."

"No. I mean, I . . ." Ryan gasped.

Instantly, Dawn came charging down the aisle. "What the hell do you think you're doin'?" she screamed. "Get your filthy fucking hands off my kid now!" Her fingers hooked into the hood of Ryan's jacket and she snatched him back, pulling the fabric up until the zipper cut into Ryan's neck.

The salesclerk pursed his lips as he took in Dawn's disheveled appearance, the grimy bra strap sliding down one shoulder, the makeup smeared around her eyes and mouth. He looked down at Ryan with something like pity, but his grasp didn't loosen. "Your boy was stealing, ma'am. This." He pried the angel out of Ryan's reluctant fingers.

"You fuckin' liar! He was just holdin' it, that's all. Ry doesn't steal. Do you, baby?"

"I . . ." Ryan whispered. "I didn't mean to, exactly."

He heard Dawn's breath hiss.

"You did take it? Ryan Atwood, you answer me right now. Were you trying to steal that damn angel?"

Ryan set his shoulders, and the man holding his hand let him go. "I'm sorry," he said. His eyes slid to the floor, but the words were direct. "It was wrong."

There had been music in the store before, and crying babies, and voices calling, and occasional laughter.

Now all Ryan could hear was his mother's voice.

"You knew? That's all you got to say? You knew it was wrong?" Dawn shoved the shopping cart viciously, sending it crashing into the shelf. "Wrong like your brother . . . wrong like your sonofabitch father--"

Her palm flashed out, landing hard on Ryan's cheek once, twice, before the salesclerk caught her hand in midair, and Trey, racing from the front of the store, yanked Ryan against his side, locking his arms around his trembling brother.

"Shit, Mom! Stop it! What are you doin'? He's just a little kid, for fuck's sake."

Dawn whirled around, panting. She seemed to deflate visibly, her rage punctured by sharp, judgmental stares, the condemning silence, the violent red staining Ryan's face.

His breath was hoarse and uneven, but he wasn't crying.

Ryan wouldn't cry.

"We're getting' the hell out of here," Dawn muttered.

Obediently, noiselessly, Trey and Ryan followed her to the car.

As soon as they got home Dawn shoved Ryan into his bedroom. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the muscles in her jaw moving.

"Not you, Ryan," she gritted. "Not ever again. You understand me?"

Ryan nodded, and Dawn slammed his door shut. Huddled on his bed, he listened to the noises, all of them clues—raised voices, his mother sobbing, one door after another closing, and, from somewhere outside the house, a lonely voice singing some false Christmas promise that faded until Ryan heard nothing at all.

"Ry? Hey, Ry. Wake up. Jeez, how can you sleep sitting up like that?"

Trey's hand jiggled Ryan's elbow and he forced his eyes open unwillingly.

"Here. It's yours," Trey said roughly, thrusting the angel at his startled brother. "I got it for you. Fuck if I know why. But Ry, you gotta know—This isn't Mom. She's not like this."

Ryan looked down at the shimmering ornament, then up at his brother, an ineffable hope lighting his face. "But she could be. Don't you think? . . . I mean, she could be, Trey."

"Nah, kid. She couldn't." Ryan flinched slightly as Trey touched his cheek. "Shit, Ry. You gotta stop lookin' for things you'll never find. You know?"

Ryan nodded absently. He pulled off his pillowcase, using it to swaddle the angel, but as he wrapped fabric around the wings he stopped suddenly. The figure had been flawless in the store—he was sure of that—but now Ryan could see a thin separation in the seam along the statue's back, a sure sign that it would fall apart soon.

Had he done that—destroyed its fragile beauty with his greed and his clutching hands?

"So?" Trey asked. "Whattya gonna do with it now, Ry? I mean, hell, Christmas is over."

Ryan ducked his head. "I don't know," he whispered, his voice filled with grief. "I guess just . . . put it away."

Quietly he padded out to the living room and tucked the angel among the old ornaments, pausing for a moment before he replaced the lid.

Ryan had never noticed before how many of the bright stars and bells and holiday shapes were tarnished, how many were chipped or dingy or stained.

Nothing looked the way he remembered.

Maybe Trey was right, and he shouldn't remember at all.


	3. 2: A Gift from Ryan’s Dad

The next chapter of "The First Time" was supposed to deal with Ryan's first kiss, but this story wanted to be written first, since the gift plays a part in the kiss episode. 

I own nothing. Still.

2: A Gift from Ryan's Dad 

The first time Ryan's father gave him a present, he wasn't around to see his son's reaction.

In fact, he didn't know about it at all.

Birthdays passed pretty much unnoticed in the Atwood family, a fact Ryan had accepted years ago. Still, he knew that some people considered them a big deal. He'd seen enough evidence: lockers at school decorated with balloons and construction paper cards, kids strutting the halls with dollar bill corsages pinned to their shirts. Before he became embarrassed to show up with a handmade or recycled gift, Ryan had even attended neighborhood parties complete with cakes and silly hats and songs and stacks of gifts. Now, he only went if the party was for Theresa, because—well, she was Theresa and Ryan couldn't say no to her. Besides, she always smiled with her entire body when he showed up, even if he was empty-handed.

Ryan definitely didn't want silly hats and songs, and just the idea of a public display at school made him cringe; but somewhere inside him lurked a furtive hope for some kind of celebration, just a little something to let him know he mattered. It crept up from his chest to his throat, a shivery kind of tickle, a teasing sense of being on the edge of something exciting.

When he opened his eyes on the morning of his twelfth birthday, Ryan allowed himself to enjoy the feeling for exactly two minutes before shoving it away.

He was too old for silly, pointless dreams.

Anyway, Ryan figured he already had gotten his birthday gift. Four days ago, his mom's latest boyfriend had stormed out, amid a torrent of tears and screams and accusations, and the crackle of breaking glass. Steve had left Dawn with 200 in unpaid long distance charges, a boarded-up kitchen window, and a beer-stained brochure for a wedding chapel in Vegas.

But he had left. That was the important thing, as far as Ryan was concerned.

It made him feel guilty sometimes that he preferred his own life when Dawn was single, because Ryan knew that his mom was never happy alone. Actually, he suspected that his mother didn't know how to be happy alone, or even how to be alone, at all. Without a man around, Dawn just seemed to go through the motions of living, skimming over the surface without ever connecting with anything. Well, anything except her cigarettes and glasses of whatever booze was handy.

But not connecting with Ryan, or with Trey. At least not in any way that counted.

That's why Ryan was stunned into immobility when he and Trey shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast and found Dawn already sitting at the table, apparently waiting for them. She almost never got up before mid-morning, not unless she had some special reason. The fluttery feeling rose again in Ryan's throat, and he swallowed hard, forcing it down as he examined his mother.

Dawn's hands were wrapped around a glass that held orange juice and maybe—maybe, Ryan hoped—nothing else. Her eyes were closed as if waking up was not worth the effort, not just to see her kids off to school.

But she was there. She might not be alert, but Dawn was there, and at the sound of their footsteps, she even mumbled a drowsy, "Good morning, boys."

After one startled grimace, Trey shook off his own surprise at finding Dawn in the kitchen. "Morning, ma. Hey, love the hair," he smirked. "What is that? The dirty dog look?" He pointed a thumb in his mother's direction and added a faint, "Woof!" before pulling a box of cereal out of the cabinet and letting the door slam shut.

Dawn winced at the noise and ran a hand over the matted strings of her hair. "Huh," she replied without rancor, or, in fact, any real interest. "For your information, I haven't had my shower yet, wiseguy,"

Trey rolled his eyes. He whispered to Ryan, loud enough for their mother to hear, "Yeah. Her fucking shower this week, she means."

"Come on, Trey, don't." Ryan shifted uncomfortably and braced himself. "Don't listen to him, Mom. You know how Trey likes to mess around."

This was a new habit of his brother's—baiting Dawn, mocking her, criticizing her openly—and Ryan hated it. Whenever Trey did it, Ryan always felt like he was straddling a crack in the earth that his weight had to hold together, and if he didn't balance exactly, one foot on either side, the fault line would widen until they all fell in.

Because Ryan couldn't deny it; Trey was right. Trey was always right about their mom's shortcomings. That wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't so ruthlessly honest about them too. It was like Trey was always trying to shove a magnifying mirror in front of Dawn's face just when she looked her worst. Lately, he had started talking to her differently too, using a new tone of voice, both unctuous and sneering, and a special vocabulary, full of private insults, like the nickname he'd chosen for herThe Train Wreck.

But Dawn was their mother, and Ryan knew it wasn't right to talk about her that way. Doing that—it was like disowning her or abandoning her, like cutting away some part of themselves and pretending it didn't belong to them. No matter what, Ryan felt compelled to defend her, to remind Trey—and Dawn too, really—of the times when she actually acted like a mom.

Because there were times like that. They just didn't happen very often, and Ryan hadn't expected his birthday to be one of them.

Ryan knew that his mom didn't like seeing her sons get older. Not that she was sentimental about their childhoods. It's just that as their birthdays reminded Dawn that she was aging too, and claiming to be twenty-seven—well, she couldn't really get away with it anymore, no matter how skillfully she applied her makeup. Definitely not with Trey around, and soon not with Ryan either.

At least not if Ryan ever started growing. He scrutinized his wavy reflection in the toaster, looking vainly for change, for some indication that he was on the verge of puberty. The image didn't show height of course, but Ryan had already checked that secretly behind his closet door. The mark on the wall just verified what he already knew; he hadn't gotten any taller since last year.

At least his voice was already changing. It still wasn't consistent, but the high little-kid trill had pretty much disappeared, replaced by a warm near-baritone that made Ryan feel older, bigger, tougher, and made strangers look twice at his baby face, wondering who really lived inside.

"You want coffee, Mom?" Ryan asked, scrubbing out the grungy pot. "I'll make some."

"Sure," Dawn said around an uncovered yawn. "Why not?"

Trey swiped the orange juice glass from her hands, and sniffed it ostentatiously.

"Hey!" Dawn objected, blindly wiping drops off her arm with the fraying belt of her robe. "Whaddya think you're doin' there? I was drinking that, Trey!"

"Well, mark the fucking calendar, Ry," Trey drawled. "It really is just juice for a change." He took a loud gulp and then slid the glass back in front of his mother.

Ryan sighed with relief and glanced over his shoulder at Dawn, but she was frowning, her brows pulled together. "Calendar," she muttered, tapping her long nails on the table. "Calendar . . ." Then she nodded, clapping her hands lightly. "That's right. Ryan, it's your birthday, isn't it baby?"

Ryan shot Trey a look, begging him not to comment. "Um . . . yeah."

Dawn laughed and opened her arms wide, if not her eyes. "What, you think I'd forget? Hey, I was there, kiddo. First person in the entire world to see that beautiful face. Come here, get your birthday kiss from your mom."

Ryan ducked his head, his lips curving in a faint, hopeful smile. He wrapped his arms around his mother's neck and leaned into her, grateful that her breath smelled like orange juice and cigarettes and nothing else. Dawn's chapped lips slid over his cheek, winding up near his eye, and she tugged his hair affectionately.

"Got something else for you too, baby."

Trey snorted. "You got Ryan a gift? What, was there a fucking prize in the cereal box or something? When did you leave the house to buy Ry a present, TW?"

"Trey . . ." Ryan whispered, still wrapped in Dawn's one-armed hug. He snuggled closer, hoping to distract his mother before she noticed Trey's contemptuous shorthand for "Train Wreck," but it was too late.

Dawn's eyes opened to half slits. "TW?" she demanded. "What the hell is TW?"

Trey grinned, and Ryan realized with horror that he fully intended to explain what the initials meant.

"It's nothing, Mom," he interjected hastily. "Just one of Trey's stupid nicknames. It means, you know . . ." Ryan cast about frantically for a flattering, or at least innocuous, expression that could begin with TW. The only phrase that occurred to him was "Terrible Woman," and he swallowed the sour taste of betrayal when he couldn't push the words out of his mind.

Trey watched, enjoying Ryan's panic and confident that there was no way his brother could finish the sentence. "Go ahead, Ry," he urged, cocking his head at their mother. "You're so fucking smart. Go on and tell her."

Ryan glared at him and gave up. "Just . . . nothing, Mom. Like when he calls me LB. It's just . . . Trey being Trey, that's all."

"LB?" Dawn muttered vacantly.

"Sure, ma. You know. LB—little brother," Trey claimed, his tone ingenuous, even though his lips quirked with crafty satisfaction.

Ryan hissed softly. He knew exactly what LB stood for, and while the L did mean "little", B was not shorthand for "brother." But there was no way Ryan was sharing that information.

"Oh." Dawn's mouth contorted with another yawn. She gave Ryan a final squeeze and released him. "Yeah, well, nicknames. That's fine for your brother and your friends, but remember, Trey, I am your mom; you'd better treat me with some goddamn respect if you know what's good for you."

"Oh, I'm pretty goddamn sure what's good for me, don't worry," Trey retorted.

Ryan's eyes flickered anxiously from his Dawn to his brother. "Mom?" he prompted, nudging his shoulder gently against hers. "My present?"

"Huh?" Dawn blinked, having already forgotten.

"My birthday present?" Ryan repeated.

He wasn't particularly interested in the gift. Last year Dawn had belatedly given Ryan a Monopoly game with cheap plastic pieces. He had hated everything about it: the mercenary theme, the interminable time it took for anyone to win, the boring rectangle "houses", and the fake pastel money that reminded him of all the problems that real money—or the lack of it—caused in his family. But Ryan desperately did not want the day to start with Trey and his mother arguing. He'd create any diversion necessary to prevent that from happening.

Trey pulled a carton from the frig, sniffed it, soaked his cereal and then chugged the remainder of the milk before putting the open, empty container back where he found it. He jammed an elbow into Ryan's side on his way to the kitchen table. "Greedy little bitch, aren't you Ry?"

"Don't call your brother a little bitch," Dawn muttered automatically, as she shuffled into the living room and began rummaging through the closet there.

Trey's voice was completely innocent. "Hey, it's just a nickname, right LB?" He grinned at Ryan who glared at him.

From the other room, they could hear Dawn pulling down boxes and apparently shaking out the contents, muttering, "Shit, I know it's here someplace. Shoulda looked for it yesterday when I thought of it." Finally, she breathed a triumphant, "There it is! Figures it'd be the last place I looked."

Trey snorted. "Yeah. Imagine that."

Dawn came back into the kitchen, her fist curled tight around something.

"Man," Trey scoffed. "I am fucking jealous already, Ry. That looks like it's some goddamn great gift. What did you get him, Ma, a piece of gum?"

Dawn's mouth twisted ruefully. "Actually, I didn't get you anything, baby," she admitted, rumpling Ryan's hair. "But I'm givin' you something. This was your father's, and I want you to have it." Her fingers opened, dangling a silver chain that glinted in the morning light. "So I guess it's really from me and your dad."

Unexpectedly, Ryan felt his eyes start to sting. He swiped his hand over them viciously, disguising the movement as an attempt to brush his long bangs off his face.

"That's . . . great, Mom. Thanks," he said, his voice cracking faintly. "That's a great gift."

His mother dropped the chain in his outstretched hand. Ryan felt the metal tickle his palm, watched it settle into a cool, slightly tarnished coil there.

"Yeah, well . . . it used to have some kind of medallion on it, but I don't know what the hell happened to that. Your dad and his stuff, you know?" Dawn said with a shrug. "But the chain's real silver, I think. Or damn close anyway."

Trey stomped over, glowering. Instinctively Ryan closed his fingers over the chain and then, for good measure, plunged his fist into his pocket.

"If that was dad's, why the fuck are you giving it to Ryan, TW?" Trey demanded. "I should get it. I'm older. Older sons are supposed to get the stuff from their fathers. Shit, Ry, let me see the damn thing anyway." He yanked Ryan's elbow, trying to dislodge his grip, but Ryan tensed his muscles and held tight.

Dawn pried Trey's hand off Ryan's arm. "Leave him the fuck alone, Trey. You got your father's damn personality. Ryan deserves to have something from him."

Trey's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. When Dawn went back to bed, leaving them to clean up the kitchen before school, he sidled over to Ryan and whispered menacingly, "That fucking chain should have been mine, Ry. So consider it your goddamn birthday present from mom and dad and me too."

Ryan nodded, solemn; the argument seemed logical to him.

Trey studied his brother for a long moment and then sighed, relenting. "Jeez, Ry, you shouldn't take shit like that from anybody. Even me." His mouth curled derisively. "One more thing I gotta teach you, I guess. But anyway, I got a real birthday present for you. 'Cause, after all, you're growing up, right? Even if you're not tall enough to fucking prove it."

He patted the top of Ryan's head, then emitted a muffled, "Oomph," when Ryan unexpectedly growled, "I don't take shit like that from anybody," and drove his shoulder hard into Trey's stomach, collapsing them both. The boys hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, laughing and gasping as they wrestled until Dawn's sharp voice froze them.

"What the hell is going on out there?"

"Nothing, ma," Trey claimed, breathless. He broke Ryan's chokehold, surprised by the effort it took, and straightened his shirt. "Just givin' Ry his birthday smacks, that's all."

"Yeah? Well, you two better not be late for school. And no ditching, Trey! I don't need another call from that nosy, horse-faced attendance officer."

Ryan scrambled to his feet. "We're going, Mom." He grabbed his jacket and whispered, "After I get my birthday present, right, Trey?"

Trey grinned. "What? You mean this?" He opened his gym bag and, with a flourish, produced a Playboy Magazine, its cover slick, glossy, and surprisingly unspoiled. "Here you go, little brother. Happy birthday. And hey, sweet wet dreams, Ry." Trey flipped the magazine open to the centerfold, holding it vertically, grinning.

Ryan looked at the picture, flushed, looked again, and clamped his legs together, the way he did at school when the teacher wouldn't give him a pass to the restroom. "Thanks, Trey," he stammered, afraid that he'd hear his old little-kid voice when he spoke. He took the magazine, debated briefly where to hide it, and finally slid it into his own backpack, protected between his math book and his social studies folder.

Trey watched, his eyes narrowed appraisingly. "I figured it was about fucking time you got some of your own stuff so you'd stop sneaking mine, you know."

Ryan felt his skin begin to burn. "Trey, I . . ." he stammered.

"Yeah? You what?" Trey demanded. He shot Ryan a mock-scowl as they left the house. "You didn't think I'd figure out you were messing around with my things? Shit, Ry, if you didn't want me to know, you shouldn't have left my stuff neater than you found it. Straightening up my stash—it's a dead giveaway, man. You know I'm a fucking pig." He knuckled Ryan in the shoulder affectionately and then vaulted off the porch.

Ryan smiled, thrilled by Trey's good humor. "Yeah, but hey, you said it, man, not me." He locked the front door and deposited the key into his pocket. It pinged against the heavy twist of metal, and Ryan paused, pulling out the chain. His fist clutched it tightly for a moment and then opened. The chain suddenly felt too heavy to hold.

"Trey?" Ryan called. "Wait a minute, okay?"

His brother, already halfway down the sidewalk, pivoted impatiently. "What? Fuck, Ry, would you get moving? You're the one who never wants to be late."

Ryan raced after Trey, catching hold of his arm. "Here." He rushed the words, so he wouldn't have a chance to change his mind. "You should have this, Trey. I mean, you're right." Ryan gave a self-deprecating shrug, and thrust the chain at his brother. "You're the one named after dad, and you're older, so . . . this should be yours."

"Fuck, Ry, I don't want it," Trey snorted. "Piece of crap jewelry."

Ryan blinked up at him, his blue eyes cloudy, the fragile happiness completely erased from his face. "You think it's crap, Trey? Really?"

He waited. The answer was important.

Finally Trey took a deep breath. "Nah," he said, slinging an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "When are you gonna stop taking everything so serious, Ry? 'Course I don't really think it's crap. But you should keep it." Trey lowered his head and whispered confidentially, "You heard what mom said. I got dad's personality. His looks too. I don't think you got one goddamn thing from him. Except this." Trey took the chain, and closed his brother's fingers around it, letting his hand cover Ryan's for just a moment. "Now you've got something from dad too. And I think . . . yeah, he'd want you to have it. Happy birthday, little brother."

Trey spun away and raced down the street.

Ryan stood for a minute, feeling the cold metal grow warm against his skin. Then he jerked out of his trance as he heard Trey call, "What the fuck? Would you move it, LB! Or the next birthday present you get will be detention from your homeroom teacher!"

Ryan laughed, pocketed his father's chain, and took off running after his brother.


	4. 3: Ryan’s First Kiss

I own Mica and the mistakes—that's about it. Oh, and Mr. Fleenor and Mr. Burnett, but who cares about them?

**The First Kiss**

The first time Ryan really kissed a girl, he had just turned twelve.

He didn't plan it. He didn't even expect it, and afterwards he couldn't quite explain to himself how it happened, or why, or even what, finally, it really meant.

There were twenty-two minutes left before school dismissed for spring break, and Ryan sat alone on the splintered gym bleachers, absently playing with his father's chain. Since his mom had given it to him for his birthday two weeks ago, he had carried it every day. He never wore it, but he often fingered it reverently in the safety of his pocket, occasionally slipping it out to study the links or test their strength with a furtive pull.

Sometimes he'd look at the empty circle where a medallion had dangled. It was twisted, its seal broken, and Ryan wondered what force had wrenched it open, whether it had been torn apart in rage or accidentally, or maybe a combination of both. He wondered even more why it had never been fixed, and what symbol once hung there.

Just yesterday, Trey had caught Ryan examining the open link. He had moved closer, squinting at the chain speculatively, his lip curled.

"Know what I think, Ry?"

Ryan cringed. He didn't want his brother's opinion, but he knew he was about to hear it anyway.

"I bet Dad wore a fucking bottle cap," Trey said, nodding sagely. "You know, to remind him of his one true love. He always was such a sentimental S.O.B."

Ryan had narrowed his eyes, breathing hard. "You're not funny, Trey. And don't talk about dad like that, like he's dead or something."

"Yeah? Well, not trying to be funny," Trey retorted. "But you need to face reality, L.B. And shit, dad may not be dead, but he sure as hell is 'or something'."

Ryan shoved away the memory of his brother's remarks. He had his own ideas what the missing medallion might be. Some kind of cross maybe. Or an ankh. Or it could have been an astrological sign. What was his dad's anyway? Taurus the bull?

Or perhaps—Ryan's covert hope—his father had worn a simple oval with an inscription that, if Ryan could only read it, would answer all of his questions

But the chain kept its secrets; it refused to reveal anything.

All around Ryan's solitary figure surged the chaos of what Mr. Fleenor, the principal, optimistically called the "Spring Fling." In fact, the event was less a dance than a surrender—a tacit admission that nobody really taught or learned on the last day before break, so why go through the motions? From one corner of the gym, a disc jockey—actually the custodian, collecting an illegal stipend for running the sound system during work hours—blasted borrowed CDs, while student council members sold chips and generic sodas in the hall. Most of the kids stayed out there; they clustered around the concession tables, gorging themselves and gossiping and trying to sneak a freebie or two when the teachers weren't looking. Inside the gym, a few students surrounded the DJ, bobbing up and down, occasionally executing a random turn, and shouting along with the lyrics. Security guards circled the perimeter of the room, alert for any obscene dance movements, guarding against potential fights, occasionally confiscating a CD that hadn't been pre-screened for profanity, and making half-hearted attempts to stop basketball games that bored kids were playing with wadded-up sweatshirts tied into rough spheres.

Ryan heard a shout and glanced up just as one of the improvised balls headed into the stands. Instinctively he snatched it in midair and lobbed it back to a player, who flung it triumphantly through the hoop. "Hey, Atwood!" the kid yelled. "You get credit for the assist, man! Wanna play?"

"Nah," Ryan called back. "Another time, maybe."

He looped his chain around his forefingers, swinging it so that it glinted as it moved in and out of the light. At the sound of his voice, one of girls crowding around the DJ's station looked up. Theresa, Ryan realized, in the middle of a circle of friends. She raised an arm, waving an invitation to Ryan, but he slouched down, staring at the blistered toes of his sneakers, pretending not to see her, hoping to be invisible.

No way was Theresa going to get him to dance.

Ryan hadn't wanted to be here in the first place. When the P.A. stuttered to life during his social studies class and the principal invited students down to the gym, he never stirred. His classmates spilled out of the room, but Ryan stayed in his seat, gazing out the window, wondered idly if the dark clouds on the horizon would actually produce any precipitation.

Rain, Ryan mused, might be a welcome change.

Sometimes the steady southern California sunshine depressed him. Ryan couldn't articulate why, but somehow he equated that golden warmth with the nebulous "potential" his teachers always claimed he possessed: both of them bright, empty promises that beckoned and teased, but never led to anything permanent.

No matter how hard Ryan tried to believe in other possibilities or how hard he worked, his world never changed.

Every day ended in darkness, every dream in disappointment.

Mr. Burnett was already in the hall getting ready to lock the door when he noticed the preternaturally still figure hunched over a desk. "Ryan? Ryan Atwood!" he called, his voice fusing concern and irritation. "Do your sleeping at home, all right? Now come on, let's go."

Ryan blinked, realizing belatedly that he was alone in the room and that Mr. Burnett was thrumming his fingers on the doorframe impatiently.

"The dance, Ryan?" Mr. Burnett prompted. "Don't you want to have fun with your friends?"

Fun was not a word Ryan associated with mandatory events, but he sighed, shrugged, and obediently joined the throng of students pushing toward the gym.

As they passed the exit doors, the thought of ditching briefly crossed Ryan's mind. It would be no big deal; he'd just be missing a dance, not a class, and anyway, Trey cut all the time.

"Shit, Ry, it's a proud Atwood tradition," he explained once, crumpling up a suspension slip. When Ryan frowned dubiously, Trey insisted, "You think anyone gives a fuck if you go to class? Besides, everything you really need to know you learn outside the damn school."

It would be easy to slip out of the building unnoticed, but Ryan abandoned the idea. He didn't quite trust his brother, and he wasn't looking to follow in Trey's footsteps.

At least not yet. Not until he figured out how much of Trey's rationale was Atwood bullshit, and how much was pragmatic truth—the ugly reality Trey believed Ryan should face sooner rather than later.

Anyway, Ryan figured he wouldn't have to participate at the dance; he could just wait out dismissal in the bleachers, removed from all the pointless activity. His strategy had worked, too, until Theresa spotted him. Without even looking, Ryan knew that she was glaring at him, hands on her hips, not fooled at all by his oblivious act. When he finally risked a glance in her direction, though, Theresa had turned away. She was talking with exaggerated animation to Gloria Colon and Mica Timmons, her whole body bristling with affronted pride.

Ryan grinned. He knew that at some point Theresa would get back at him for ignoring her. She'd shove him off his bike onto a thick, forgiving cushion of grass, or maybe she'd steal his pudding in the cafeteria—not the chocolate, which she knew he loved, but the butterscotch, that he thought looked and tasted like pureed cardboard. Ryan could always count on Theresa for two things: she never let him get away with anything, and she never let her retaliation hurt him.

Theresa knew exactly how to be a friend.

Maybe, Ryan thought, he should go down and say hi after all.

Mustering his courage—because getting to Theresa meant running the gauntlet of giggling, whispering girls surrounding her—Ryan started to get up, when his fingers, slick with sweat in the humid gym, lost their grip on his father's chain. He grabbed, catching nothing but air, then watched in horror as the necklace slithered through a crack into the garbage-strewn darkness below the bleachers.

"Shit," Ryan breathed, bending down to peer through the slit between tiers of seats. He could just see the coil of silver, tantalizingly out of reach, winking at him as the shadow of his body crossed a thin strip of light from the fluorescents overhead.

For a moment, Ryan crouched, breathing hard, wondering why he felt so bereft. The chain wasn't lost; he just couldn't touch it.

Except that it had belonged to his father—who also wasn't lost. But Ryan couldn't touch him either.

Handmade posters on the walls warned that going under the bleachers was grounds for suspension, and the administration had blocked the open sides with mesh screens. One barrier, Ryan knew, was intact, reinforced just last week after the smell of marijuana alerted his harried gym teacher to the spot where several students were hiding.

Trey had sneered when Ryan told him about the incident. "Man, kids in that dumbass school got shit-stupid since I went there." He rocked back in his chair until it was balanced on two legs. "What? They think teachers don't got noses? You don't smoke under the fucking bleachers during class. During class, you go under the bleachers to have sex."

Dawn had emerged from the bathroom while Trey was speaking, and as she shambled past she cuffed the back of his head, slamming his chair back to the ground. "Don't you go talking to your baby brother about sex," she ordered.

"I'm not a baby," Ryan objected, but nobody was listening to him.

"The fuck, Mom," Trey complained, rubbing his head. "That hurt. And shit, it's not like I was telling Ry how, just where."

Dawn's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she had partied hard the night before, and her mind was too muddled to figure out what was wrong with Trey's excuse. "Well, okay then," she mumbled, lighting a cigarette. "But just watch it, mister."

"Right, Mom," Trey agreed. He leaned toward Ryan and whispered, smirking. "Yeah, and watching people have sex? You can do that down there too."

Remembering the conversation Ryan grimaced, but he desperately wanted to retrieve his chain, so he had to risk it. He had to crawl under the bleachers, no matter what might be happening there.

With the stealth he used to sneak out of the house when one of Dawn's boyfriends was around, Ryan inched his way to the side of the stands. He paused briefly, bobbing his head to the music, pretending nonchalance. Then he began inching back, one cautious step at a time, running his fingers over the wire, trying blindly to locate an opening. A sharp point jabbed into his flesh, and Ryan's eyes widened first in pain and then in triumph. Moving as little as possible, he slipped a furtive finger into the hole and ripped the screen until he could pull it back. Then he cast a quick glance around, dropped to his knees, and ducked underneath.

Quickly, so he wouldn't have time to think about sex and secretions, and what he might be touching, Ryan crept toward the section where he had been sitting, trying to avoid the worst pieces of garbage in his path. Once there, he sat back for a moment, scrubbing his palms on his jeans. The floor under the bleachers was gritty and disgusting and Ryan dreaded having to put his hands back down in the dirt.

So far, this "fun" dance was everything he hated: noisy, filthy, and filled with the threat of worse things to come.

Ryan leaned forward gingerly, hoping he could spot the chain before he had to crawl any more. He squinted into the striped darkness, and then breathed an exultant, relieved "Yes!" The necklace lay a little distance away, amid crumpled candy wrappers, a piece of paper folded into a tight triangle, and—Ryan cringed—a pile of used Kleenex and something that looked wet and rubbery. He shuffled on his knees and then bent over, stretching an arm as far as he could. His finger touched a link, almost catching it, when something, or someone, suddenly pinched his ass.

In one dizzy movement, Ryan jerked up and away, spinning wildly so that he smacked his forehead on the underside of the seats above him and landed in a clumsy tangle of limbs, facing Mica Timmons.

"Cute butt, Atwood," she observed, nodding with admiration.

Ryan blinked, momentarily stunned both by the blow to his head and the sight of Mica's appraising smile. When he whirled around, he automatically assumed he'd find Theresa smirking behind him, and his lips were already pursed, indignant, ready to spit her name.

Theresa was the only person Ryan knew who might touch him that way. He didn't know Mica at all, except by sight and locker-room reputation. But Mica didn't waste her time and attention on sixth-graders, so Ryan couldn't imagine what she wanted under the bleachers with him.

His anger dissolved into wary confusion.

"Did you follow me?" he hissed, trying to figure out how to reclaim his chain and his dignity at the same time. It wasn't possible. He'd have to turn around again, a move suddenly risky and discomforting.

Mica shrugged, removed the wad of gum she was chewing and stuck it on the wood over her head. "Sure," she admitted easily. "The dance is way lame, so I decided to see why you were sneaking down here. And then I liked what I saw. You may be short, Atwood—and yeah, young too, I guess, but you got it going on."

Ryan swallowed, speechless. Trey would unleash a ready comeback, but Ryan wasn't even sure what to feel. Flattered? Offended? Embarrassed? Angry? A little bit—and he was only guessing about this unfamiliar, electric emotion—aroused?

Ryan knew about sex, of course. He'd seen enough on TV and in his brother's impressive stash of porn. Besides, despite Dawn's warning, Trey talked all the time—well, bragged actually, or maybe lied—about his own experiences. And occasionally, although Ryan tried to ignore them, he heard graphic noises from his mother's bedroom, had to clench his eyes shut against unwanted glimpses through doors left ajar.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

At the sound of Mica's voice, Ryan jerked to attention and flushed, wondering how long he'd been staring at her, his mouth half open and his breath audible. He scrambled to pull himself together, folding his body in tight.

"That's okay, though," she continued, unperturbed. "Most guys talk way, way too much. You seem, like, really mature for your age, Atwood. Cute too."

Mica grinned, her eyes crinkling at the edges, and after a moment Ryan offered a shy half-smile in return.

At fourteen--she'd already been held back twice, and was well on her way to failing again—Mica was, by middle school standards, an older woman. And even by Trey-standards, she was well developed, a fact that she advertised, wearing tops that revealed both midriff and cleavage, but only when she stretched or bent over, so she almost never got sent home to change.

Mica scooted closer to Ryan, her skirt hiking up as she made herself comfortable on the filthy floor. She settled down cross-legged, pulled some lip gloss out of a purse shaped like a poodle, and busied herself recoating her lips. Her body completely blocked Ryan's way out of the bleachers.

He watched, fascinated, as the edge of her nail delicately outlined her mouth. "It's cherry flavored," Mica reported, seeing Ryan's eyes on her. She flashed a test smile and held out the tube. "You want to taste?"

"Jeez. No," Ryan protested, flinching. "What do you think—I'm gonna wear that stuff?"

The tip of Mica's tongue flicked out and then disappeared. "Guess not," she answered thoughtfully. "So . . . you could just kiss me."

All along, Ryan had been vaguely aware of sounds seeping in from the gym—disembodied voices, eerie laughter, the erratic wailing of different songs. But suddenly he couldn't hear anything anymore. It was as if everyone had vanished, leaving him alone with Mica. Only the music remained, but now Ryan sensed it in his nerve endings and skin: heavy bass throbbing through the floorboards, pushing into his body, pulsing through his blood.

"You want me to kiss you?" he asked, his voice catching just slightly.

"Sure. You know how?"

Ryan swallowed an automatic Trey-inspired lie.

He could say yes, but then Mica not only would expect him to kiss her, she would expect him to do it well, and Ryan suspected that kissing, like scoring in soccer, could maybe be done by accident, but for any real expertise, it required practice. So why even pretend? Long ago, Ryan had learned that truth was the only thing worth offering and worth receiving; lies just evaporated into the air like poison gas, sickening everybody who breathed them.

Besides, Ryan was a terrible liar. On the other hand, he was very good at evasion.

"I didn't come here to kiss you, Mica. I came to get the chain I dropped."

"Oh. Okay."

Mica cocked her head, twisting her fingers through her thick, black curls. Then, abruptly, she crawled past Ryan, blew the used tissues away so her hand didn't touch them, and grabbed the chain. Settling back on her heels in front of Ryan, she lowered the necklace ceremonially over his head.

Once, on television, Ryan had seen Hawaiian women wearing grass skirts and bras do the same thing, only with wreaths of flowers. Recalling the image, he found his gaze drifting towards Mica's breasts; they were high and round and he could just glimpse a shadow playing between them that made his groin muscles clench.

Mica straightened the twisted links and patted them into place on Ryan's neck, her hand unexpectedly warm and welcome against his skin.

"Okay, you got your chain back, Atwood. Wanna kiss me now?"

Ryan listened for a tease or a dare in Mica's words, the warning that a "yes" would ruin him, but all he heard was invitation. He glanced down at her bare knees. They were a deep smooth brown, except for one tender pink area under a half-peeled scab, and they pressed against Ryan's own legs through the denim of his jeans. In this position, it didn't matter that Mica was two inches taller, two years older. She and Ryan seemed to fit perfectly.

And she had retrieved his chain for him.

Maybe, in some way, he owed her a kiss.

"Okay," he whispered, sucking in a shaky breath. He waited, sure that Mica would make the first move—it had been her idea after all—and then realized that she was just sitting, watching him. Her lips looked poised and moist and practiced, but under her lashes, Mica's eyes seemed to have changed.

Maybe it was a trick of the shadows, the way fragments of light glanced off her face and then died, but just for a moment, Ryan thought he recognized a flicker of yearning, the half-buried hurt of loneliness.

He had seen eyes like that before.

Carefully, Ryan touched one tentative finger to Mica's cheekbone, then slid his hand around to the back of her head, gripping her hair to steady himself. He leaned forward, licked his lips, touched them lightly to hers. Their noses bumped and Ryan shifted his face, first right, then left. He was surprised to hear Mica whimper deep in her throat, shocked when he started to rock back, thinking the kiss was over, and her tongue pushed into his mouth.

Ryan froze. For a heartbeat, the little boy in him recoiled, mentally swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, scrubbing away the alien spit.

But he had said it himself; he wasn't a baby. He wouldn't behave like one.

Besides, something in him enjoyed the sensation.

Ryan opened his mouth wider, perhaps just to breathe, but then, incredibly daring, his own tongue awoke and twisted around Mica's, tasting cherry—that must be the lip-gloss—but something else too. Cinnamon, he thought—her gum had been red—and a hint of another flavor, delicious, but darker and more dangerous.

Probably that was just Mica.

Or maybe the future. Because Ryan knew there was no going back now.

"Ryan and Mica, what do you think you're doing in there? You come out here right now!"

The voice startled Ryan. He shook his head slightly, a swimmer emerging from deep water, reaching for something solid, and blinked over Mica's shoulder. She had dropped her face to his neck, sucking at the skin under his chain, but at the sound of Theresa's imperious whisper, she stopped.

"Guess we better go, Atwood," Mica murmured. "I think the dance is over."

Ryan closed his eyes as she crouched down and crawled toward the opening; then he crept after her, his gaze resolutely on the ground. He and Mica waited silently under the bleachers where Theresa was standing, tapping a foot furiously, until she flipped her hand once, indicating that it was safe to emerge.

As they stood up, Theresa's eyes raked scathingly from Mica to Ryan. "I thought," she said deliberately, "that we were friends." She tossed her head and marched away without a backwards glance, her steps echoing in the near-empty gym.

Ryan looked after her, unsure whether the words had been directed at Mica or at him.

Mica shrugged. "Guess Theresa's pissed," she observed casually. "Anyway, pretty good for your first time, Atwood. Let me know if you want to do it again." She paused, smiling significantly. "Or, hey, maybe you should let Theresa know." Mica strolled to the door, then stopped and tossed the container of lip gloss back to Ryan. "Here," she called. "You keep it. Souvenir."

Automatically, Ryan caught the small tube and pocketed it.

All the way home, Ryan tried to figure it out—Mica, Theresa, the kiss, why he felt branded, why he loved the burn—but it was too complicated. His fingers around rolled his dad's chain, safely back in his pocket, but it provided no answers.

He was still puzzling the whole situation hours later, sitting on the couch in front of a blank TV screen when his brother came home.

"Hey," Trey said, with a lazy salute. He started to slouch past Ryan then did an elaborate double-take. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "Check it out! Little brother has a fucking hickey!"

Ryan looked up, alarmed, and clapped a hand to his throat. "What?" he stammered. "No, I . . . Do I? Come on, Trey, I don't." He hunched his shoulder, trying to hide the spot from his brother's scrutiny.

"Holy shit, you so do, L.B. How the fuck do you like that?" Trey cupped his hand and slapped Ryan lightly on the cheek. "Little Ryan Atwood is growing up. You just better keep away from my women, bro . . . So, how was it?"

"Good," Ryan said, his lips curving in a secret smile. "It was good."

"Shit, I can see it was. And hey, Ry," Trey predicted, "it only gets better." He added loud slurping and sucking noises for effect.

Ryan's face burned, and he ducked further down on the couch as his brother continued to inspect his neck. Neither boy noticed their mother slouch woozily from her bedroom, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, until her voice split the air.

"What the hell is that?" Dawn demanded sharply, slamming the bottle down on an end table. "Get over here, Ry. That better not be what I think it is."

"Jeez, Mom," Trey drawled, goading her with faux-innocence. "What do you think it is?"

Ryan hissed a warning, poking his brother hard as he got up, but Trey just wiggled his eyebrows, amused.

"It's nothing, Mom," Ryan claimed. He squirmed as Dawn knelt and yanked at the neck of his t-shirt to examine the bruise more closely. Her fingers were rough, and a ragged nail scratched a weeping red line across his neck.

Dawn's voice was fierce and unsteady. "You are too damned young for this, you understand me, Ryan? I don't care what your goddamned brother tells you. You got--" Her breath caught and she suddenly wrapped Ryan in a tight booze and smoke-scented embrace. "You got time," Dawn concluded brokenly. "You're still my baby, Ryan. You understand me? You're still mine."

Ryan went rigid. He shot his brother a beseeching look, but Trey just plucked the cigarette dangling dangerously from Dawn's hand and muttered, "Shit, Mom. Kill the kid, why donchya? Fucking train wreck. . ." He shook his head in disgust, pausing before he left to whisper, "You're on your own with this one, L.B. Just, next time, don't let the girl fucking mark you, all right . . .?"

Ryan watched Trey leave. Then, very gently, he patted his mother's damp hands, trying to ease himself out of her grasp, but Dawn's arms tightened convulsively. Her stale-sour breath was hot against his cheek, and Ryan could feel her crying as she chanted, stumbling over the words, punctuating them with sloppy kisses, "Too young. You're too young, Ry. You're my . . . baby. You're just . . . you're still mine."

Treasured and trapped, Ryan couldn't move.

He didn't feel too young.

Inside, where it counted, he felt very old.


	5. 4 Ryan’s First Cigarette

Chronologically, this story would fit after the very first one, before the family settles in Chino. Since I have no master plan, and am just writing at whim, there's no real order to this series.

This time I own none of the characters, but I still have to claim all of the mistakes.

**Ryan's First Cigarette**

The first time Ryan smoked a cigarette was on the day his family left Fresno to start what his mom swore would be a better life.

By that, she meant one without gossiping neighbors.

Without eyes tracking them in the grocery store.

Without shouted slurs and kids pointing fingers.

And without Ryan's dad.

Dawn had been prattling about the move for weeks, painting word-pictures that made Chino sound like Disneyland, a place full of color and laughter, sweet smells and bright sunlight, and streets always swept perfectly clean. At least that's what Ryan imagined Disneyland would be like. Despite his dad's promises that they'd all go someday, the trip never became more than a crumpled brochure; yet it still had seemed possible, something that might happen next month or next year, just as soon as Ryan's father could get hold of the money.

That's how he had always phrased it, explaining, "Fucking place costs a fortune, boys. We'll go when I can get hold of the money."

As if, Ryan thought, gold coins were rolling down the sidewalk, glinting just out of reach, so all that his dad had to do was to sprint after them and scoop up enough in his large, calloused hands.

And in a way, he had done exactly that; but now Ryan knew how skewed his innocent image of that act had been, some childish comic book story, and not reality. Now Ryan had seen the truth in front of his eyes, replayed on the news, on the closed door of Tony Riccio's house, in Trey's cynicism and Dawn's misery.

But Ryan still wasn't sure he wanted to move. He'd never admit it out loud, but the prospect scared him—not so much the uncertainty of facing a new neighborhood or a new school or making new friends. What Ryan hated was the idea of the old house left behind, and his father coming home one day to find a whole different family living inside.

Or maybe nobody at all, just empty rooms, and no trace of Dawn, or Ryan or Trey, no way at all for his dad to find them.

Even when Dawn made Trey rummage behind discount stores and lug home discarded boxes they could use for packing, Ryan still secretly wished that she might change her mind.

She didn't.

Each day one more thing happened to erode his hope. Dawn had the mail stopped. She sold their refrigerator and stove. Dragging her reluctant sons, she trudged to Ryan's school and then over to Trey's to retrieve transfer records. They came away with only one set, though; Trey's principal refused to release his transcript because Trey owed $26 for unreturned books, and Dawn, incredulous and irate, refused to pay the fine.

"For books?" she scoffed. "You're talkin' 'bout Trey? He don't even read, and he's gonna steal books? Jeez, this is some scam you got going . . . Target the kid just because of his dad . . ." Grabbing both boys by an arm, Dawn marched them out of the office. "Who the hell needs transcripts anyway?" she demanded, her strident voice echoing through the vacant halls. "A public school's got to take you, records or not."

Trailing behind her, Ryan risked a glance at Trey who was smiling smugly.

"Books?" he whispered.

"Sold 'em," Trey explained. He lifted an eyebrow, picking at his fingernails. "Hey, you can find some sorryass loser who will buy anything."

By mid-June, the only task that remained was the actual move. Six phone calls finally convinced Dawn that they couldn't afford to rent a U-haul.

"Hey, what does it matter, right?" she declared airily. "Those truck places are all rip-offs anywho. We can cram our things into the car, or, you know, strap stuff to the roof . . . Hey, here's an idea. We can fill up the whole backseat if Ry sits on your lap in the front, Trey--"

"Mom!" Ryan protested, aghast. "No!" He didn't even want to think what would happen if he were forced to sit on Trey's lap during the drive—the tattoo of pinches and pokes, the tweaks of his ear and murmured insults, the complete destruction of his dignity.

Trey curled his lip in disbelief. "The fuck? Here's another idea, Mom. Get real. Ryan is not sittin' on my lap," he warned.

"Give me one goddamn reason why not. He's small enough, Trey," Dawn countered. "It's not like you're glass and he's gonna break you." Suddenly she laughed, swaying on her feet. She grabbed Ryan's hand, swinging it and crooning a mangled fragment of song, "He ain't heavy . . . he's my brother . . ."

Ryan flushed and pulled away. "I'm not . . . that small," he insisted, trying to will himself larger and more imposing.

"He is not sitting on my lap, Mom," Trey repeated. "It's a stupid lameass idea. I don't care how little he is . . ."

Ryan gritted his teeth. "Stop saying I'm little," he muttered, pounding his fists against his own thighs.

"Fine," Dawn conceded, her smile vanishing. She jabbed a warning finger from Ryan to Trey. "But I don't wanna hear any bitching when I throw things out cause we can't fit them in the car. You got it? There are, whaddya call them, consequences you gotta live with, you know? Now get to bed. We got a big day tomorrow."

Ryan froze, his rage replaced by a wave of icy panic that left him breathless. His eyes moved frantically around the room. Nothing was gone yet, but it looked empty already. "Tomorrow?" he asked, that one word all he could manage.

"Why the hell not?" Dawn shrugged. "I already got the keys to the new place, and there's nothing keeping us here now. Yeah, we might as well go tomorrow. You snooze, you lose, right? Now what did I tell you? Ryan—Trey, bed. Don't make me say it again."

They knew enough not to argue with that tone of voice.

It was the insistent scream of the radio reaching through the thin walls that woke Ryan and Trey the next morning, followed by Dawn pounding on their door.

"Hey! You gonna sleep all day in there? Get outta bed, get dressed and get out here," she yelled. Then the boys heard her snicker manically. "Outta bed . . ." Dawn choked. "Wait, that's right—we sold the goddamn beds! So get off the floor! Trey? Ryan? I'm waiting!"

"Jeez, it's not even eight o'clock and she is shitass wasted, Ry," Trey observed wearily when he and Ryan shuffled in from their bedroom, limbs heavy, eyes unfocused and still crusty with sleep.

Dawn was whirling around the living room in a frenzy of activity, laughing and flinging things haphazardly into cartons or garbage cans. She grinned, cigarette waving, when she saw Ryan and Trey.

"Moving day, guys!" she caroled happily. "We're gonna get out of this sorry dump! Finally!" Snatching a lace bra from a jumble of clothes Dawn spun it over her head in celebration, collapsing in giggles when it slipped out of her grasp and flew across the room. "Oopsie," she mumbled. "My bad. You boys . . . you didn't see that, okay? You boys shouldn't, you know, see your mom's . . . that."

Ryan hunched his shoulders, mortified, his eyes seeking somewhere neutral to rest, anywhere that had no hint of his mother.

"Shit," Trey breathed. His face contorted in disgust. "Well, Dad's gone, so I guess Mom's drinkin' his share now too. Can't let cheap booze go to waste." He leaned down to Ryan and whispered so Dawn wouldn't hear, but she wasn't listening anyway. Between swings of beer she was singing bits of her favorite songs, her voice a little slurred yet surprisingly pure.

"Who the hell needs all this old stuff?" Dawn demanded, upending a drawer. "I mean, just look at this crap."

Silently, bleakly, Ryan stood by as his mother threw away things he thought she valued—a clay vase he had made at a summer day camp, the trophy Trey won as T-ball MVP, the "Number 1 Mom" pendant both boys had given her last Mother's Day.

If those things didn't matter, what did?

Dawn was tossing bits of their lives into the trash and, watching, Ryan felt raw, as if flakes of his skin were peeling away. He bit his lip, digging his fingers into his own arm; his gaze followed each item as it vanished, saying a silent goodbye.

Across the room, Trey slouched in a sagging, overstuffed chair, yanking threads out of the upholstery. "Keep goin', Mom," he muttered under his breath. "Pretty soon we won't have one shitass thing left."

Dawn stopped to drain her beer, blowing out breaths that ruffled her white-blonde bangs. "You know," she said, wiping sweat off her forehead, "I could use a little help here. What's the point of having kids if they don't do nothing for you? Besides, you guys are lookin' at this all wrong. This move—it can be great for us! It can! Right, Trey? Tell your little brother."

Trey answered her eager smile with a sneer and Dawn flipped a finger at him dismissively. "Fine, forget you then. But come on, Ry, sweetie, you're on my side, right? Here--" She shoved a balled-up sweater—his father's--into Ryan's hands. "Let's see if you can make a basket. Go for it, baby. All right . . . He fakes right, he fakes left—he drives to the lane—he looks for his shot . . ."

Obediently, Ryan palmed the wad of stained cloth. Then he froze. It still smelled like his father—sour and strong and a little like motor oil—and the idea of throwing it out made Ryan's stomach clench. But Dawn's voice pushed his hands forward and, despite himself, Ryan tossed the bundle away.

It unraveled, arms hanging limp and empty, as it fell into the garbage can.

"He shoots! And he scores!" Dawn cheered. She exhaled a hum of imitation crowd noise and reached over to tickle Ryan's throat, trying to coax an answering giggle or grin. When he didn't respond her fingers pressed upward, molding his mouth into the shape of a smile. It stayed, fixed and vacant, when she dropped her hand.

"Oh come on, kiddo." Dawn's voice was unnaturally high, wheedling, her eyes glassy and wild. "Don't look like that. You'll see. We're gonna get everything new, make a fresh start. It'll be fun, a new house, new friends—Trey, what the hell? Stop that! Whaddya think you're doing? If I throw something out, it fucking means we're not takin' it!"

Trey clutched the shabby catcher's mitt he had retrieved from the trash, keeping it away from his mother's grasping hand. "It's mine, Mom," he protested. "Fuck, don't I get any say in what I can keep?" His jaw was set in stony defiance, but Ryan heard something in his voice: a crack that let a rare note of longing seep through.

He glanced from his brother's rigid face back over to Dawn, eyes pleading, waiting to see what his mother would do.

For a moment, Dawn bared her teeth, her cheeks flaming dangerously, but then she took a deep breath. "Trey. Honey." Her voice quavered, and she paused, thrusting a shaky hand through her hair, yanking at the strands that snagged on her rings. "Don't fight me on this, all right? Just . . . this one time, don't—just don't be like your dad, okay? I can't deal with it now. We . . . cannot . . . take everything. Now somebody's gotta make the decisions here. And damn it, I am the adult!"

The last word was a warning, shrill and familiar. Trey and Ryan both flinched even before Dawn flung her empty bottle across the room. It shattered against a wall, spraying shards of glass everywhere.

Immediately, Dawn's eyes filled. "Look," she moaned. "Look what you made me do. Damn it. Goddamn it to hell. Why does everything have to be such a fucking mess all the time?"

Trey and Ryan exchanged empty glances, and Trey moved to get the broom.

"No!" Dawn hissed, swiping a palm over her face. "I'll clean it up. You—both of you, just . . . get out of here before you cut yourselves."

"Come on, Ry," Trey said roughly, when Ryan didn't move. "If she wants to clean up the shitass mess herself this time, let her . . ." He put a cupped hand around his brother's neck, and began to steer him from the room.

"Wait!" Dawn called. She was on her hands and knees, brushing the largest pieces of glass into a glittering pile, and she never looked up. "You want that goddamned catcher's mitt, Trey? Fine. Take it. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do anyway. Just get out of here . . ."

Ryan felt Trey's fingers tighten involuntarily, biting into his neck, and he peered up, alarmed, at his brother.

"Don't . . ." Ryan whispered, not even sure what he was asking Trey not to do.

Trey spat out a strange, choking sound. Then, abruptly, he dropped his hand, kicked over a kitchen chair and stormed from the house. Ryan automatically started to follow, but the screen door slammed hard in his face, leaving him caught inside, clutching the doorknob, immobilized by Dawn's gasping, wet sobs from the living room.

Trey raced up the street without a backward glance.

Ryan caught his breath, instantly terrified that his brother wouldn't return, that when it came time to leave Fresno forever, Trey wouldn't be with them.

But there was no way Ryan could catch up with Trey.

There was no way he could leave his mother alone.

He didn't have a choice.

Ryan went back to the abandoned cartons and removed the jumble of clothes Dawn had crammed inside, folding them and replacing them neatly. When everything was in order and his mother wasn't looking, he picked up Trey's abandoned mitt, smoothing it and running his thumb over the lacings before he hid it carefully underneath a blanket on top of the box.

Somehow, Ryan thought that packing the glove would insure that Trey would come back. And Ryan wanted it to be one of the first things his brother would unload when they got to Chino.

After he finished, Ryan climbed quietly into the sagging armchair. One finger found a hole in the upholstery and poked inside, digging out small tufts of cotton and then stuffing them back while he waited, wondering what he should do next. Dawn had fallen asleep flat on the floor. An outstretched arm pillowed her head, and her shuttered eyes looked sunken and bruised, with veins visible under her smeared make-up. Ryan wanted to cover her—Dawn's robe was twisted almost all the way up to her waist—but he was afraid she'd resent any touch, no matter how gentle, so instead he closed his own eyes against the sight.

Eventually, the oppressive silence lurking just below all the radio noise lulled Ryan into a fitful sleep.

A hand jiggling his elbow roused him. He pushed it away instinctively, huddling back into the corner.

"Hey, Ry. Baby? It's me. It's just Mom." Dawn's voice sounded different, less hectic and dangerous. "Come on, kiddo. Wake up."

Ryan blinked into the shadows that had crossed the room, then allowed his gaze to lift to his mother. Dawn looked smudged, like a bright crayon drawing someone had tried to erase.

"Where's your brother, Ry?"

"Trey?" Ryan asked stupidly, as if he had another brother somewhere. He swallowed. "Um . . . I think . . . he's out saying goodbye. You know, to some people before we leave." Ryan let himself think, just for one moment, of the goodbyes he'd never say.

Dawn nodded and slid into the chair, wedging herself tight next to Ryan. She ran an unsteady hand through his hair as she spoke. "He's pissed with me, huh?"

"No," Ryan lied.

"Yeah, he is." Dawn was pressed so close to Ryan that her sigh shuddered through both of their bodies. "You are too, aren't you, baby?"

"No," Ryan said again, very softly, trying to make the word true.

"Look, Ry, I'm just . . . I'm doing what I can, you know, with your daddy gone. And shit, I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do . . ." Her lips pursed around a rueful laugh. "How do you like that? Everything's a song today." Dawn's breath tickled Ryan's ear as she half-murmured, half-sang into it, "'I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song and . . . this one's for you . . .' Elton John, kiddo. At least I think . . . yeah, Elton John. Not that it matters, right?"

Ryan nudged his cheek shyly against his mother's shoulder. "You have a nice voice, Mom. When you sing . . . I really like it."

"Yeah?" Dawn asked. She brushed a kiss against Ryan's temple and stood up, straightening her robe and shaking back her hair. "Well, tell you what, baby. We'll have a lot to sing about at our new house, I promise . . . Okay. Why don't you see if you can find that brother of yours? I'm gonna take a shower and get dressed, and then we'll get the car loaded and we'll just . . . We'll be on our way, Ry."

Ryan shivered a little when he pulled himself out of the chair. He felt cold suddenly, even though the air was still heavy with summer heat. For a moment, he stood, looking at the unfamiliar shape of the room, stripped of almost everything that had made it home. Then, listlessly, he forced himself out to the porch, wondering if he should even try to look for Trey, if he even knew where to start.

But Trey was easy to find. He was sitting at the base of a spindly bush in the front yard, one knee pulled up to his chest, bracing the hand that held his cigarette.

"Hey," he said, when he saw Ryan standing on the steps. "She awake?"

Ryan nodded.

"She sober?"

Ryan gave a one-shoulder shrug. "I think. Pretty much."

"Good," Trey snorted. "'Cause no way I was letting her drive us to Chino, not in that punkass condition. Fuck, I'd do it myself first."

"Then you're coming?" Ryan tried to quell the eager rise of his voice. "I mean, to Chino, with us? Because I thought--"

"What?" Trey demanded. "You thought I was gonna take off and never come back?"

Ryan scuffed his feet into the patchy grass, never lifting his eyes. "I don't know. I thought . . . maybe."

"Nah. At least not this time. I'll wait and see what happens in Chino first." Trey reached over and punched Ryan in the ribs, not quite hard enough for it to really hurt. "You'd miss me if I went away, huh, Ry?"

"Yeah. I would." Ryan sat down next to his brother, then cocked his head, considering. "Hey . . . can you really drive, Trey?"

Trey blew out a lopsided smoke ring, flicking cigarette ashes into the dirt. "Of course I-can-really-drive-Trey. Whaddya think I been doing over at Nick's uncle's garage?"

"I don't know." Ryan blushed and looked away from his brother. "I thought you were screwing around with girls in the cars parked out back. I mean, you said . . ."

"Oh well, shit, yeah, that too," Trey laughed. "But Nick taught me to drive. Man, Ry, it's a sweet feeling. All that power and speed right there in your hands . . ."

"Yeah, but . . . how can you drive, Trey? You're only thirteen."

Trey shook his head sadly. "For a kid who's supposed to be so smart, Ry, sometimes you're really dumb. Age has got nothing to do with when you can do things. Size does, maybe . . . Sorry, shrimp, but it's true. But age has only got something to do with when lameass adults say you can do things."

Ryan frowned, turning the argument over his mind. Something was wrong with it, at least he thought so, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was.

Smoke from his brother's cigarette crawled up his nose, and Ryan asked, surprising himself, "Can I try one, Trey?"

Trey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Try what?

"A smoke."

"Shit, Ry. You're nine. I didn't start smokin' till I was eleven."

Ryan's lips twitched. "What are you, some lameass adult saying I can't do something just because I'm too young?"

"And what are you? Some smartass little bitch making fun of your big brother?" Trey demanded fiercely, but Ryan could see a smile lurking under his scowl.

"Maybe," he admitted. "But I do want to try one."

"I don't know." Trey inspected his brother's upturned face. It was open and innocent, and it gave Trey a weird simultaneous craving to smack Ryan's cheek and to stroke it tenderly. He shoved his free hand in his pocket. "Listen, Ry, it's just . . . if both of us start stealing her stash, Mom's bound to notice her smokes disappearing."

Ryan shook his head, his hair obscuring his eyes. "No," he said seriously. "I'm not gonna keep doing it, Trey. I mean . . . I just want to try once, that's all . . . You do it. And I'm not a baby or anything."

Trey looked at his smoke, rolled it around in his fingers and then smirked. "This should be pretty funny," he murmured. "Okay, little brother. Here you go . . ."

He took one final drag and handed Ryan the cigarette from his own mouth.

Ryan stared at Trey in disbelief.

He was supposed to smoke that? Something coated with Trey's saliva? Ryan had assumed Trey would light a fresh smoke for him.

"Well?" Trey prompted, a malicious grin twisting his mouth. "You keep holding it, it's just gonna burn you, Ry."

Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay." He put the cigarette between his lips for a moment and then took it out, smiling victoriously as a thin stream of smoke wafted out from his mouth.

"See?" he drawled, with pretend nonchalance. "I didn't choke or anything."

"Fuck, yeah, you didn't anything. You didn't inhale. Go ahead, Ry. Try it again. And this time do it right. Suck that shit down."

The thought of sucking shit down made Ryan gag, and he really didn't want to try it again, but, reluctantly, he returned the cigarette to his mouth. He closed his eyes, braced himself, and then took a deep drag. His lungs promptly exploded. Above the sound of his own gasping and coughing, Ryan could hear Trey's laughter, his mocking taunt, "Yeah, smartass, see, now that's how it's done."

Furious, Ryan caught his breath. Trey was reaching for the cigarette, but Ryan wrenched it away and took another pull, squinting defiantly at his brother.

He hated it, the stinging smoke on his tongue, the way his throat constricted, the slimy spit-wet end he had to put in his mouth, the smell that instantly clung to his skin and his clothes.

But Ryan liked the red point of fire controlled in his hand, the way the cylinder fit in the curl of his lips, the warmth that washed through his body, the vapors that puffed from his mouth and hung in the air.

Like a dragon's fierce breath.

Like the exhaust from a speeding sports car.

Like the fumes that came into the room with Trey, Dawn, or his dad.

He began to feel dizzy, but Ryan's hand stubbornly held the cigarette in his mouth.

"Hey, Ry! That's enough, okay?" Trey snatched the smoke back, stabbing it out in the grass. "What the hell are you trying to prove?"

It scared Ryan, the fact that he didn't know. He panted a little, feeling Trey's eyes on him, probing. Before he could figure out a response that made sense, even to him, the screen door slammed and Dawn stepped out on the porch. She was freshly made-up, her hair washed and curled, her earrings catching the light as she threw her head back.

"Hey? Ryan? Where are you baby . . .?" she called. "Oh good, you found Trey. Let's go, boys! I got everything set. We just need to load the car and we're ready to roll." Dawn began to drag boxes out of the door, pausing to wave a pointed command. "Let's go!" she repeated emphatically. "Ry? Trey? I need you now!"

Eyes suddenly bleak, Ryan turned to his brother. Trey shrugged, hoisting himself to his feet, then reached down for Ryan and pulled him up too.

"I guess that's it," Trey observed flatly. "So . . ." He made a sound, half a sigh, half a groan, dropped Ryan's hand and trudged back toward the house.

It seemed to Ryan that his whole body suddenly stung—his bare legs that had pressed against twigs and pebbles, his arm where he scratched open a mosquito bite, an old cut on his heel where his tennis shoe rubbed, his throat, still raw from the cigarette smoke.

"So . . ." Ryan echoed, and stopped.

His voice sounded husky, thick with unspoken words.

It didn't matter. He was alone.

There was no one to listen to him anyway.


	6. 6 Ryan’s First Fight

The mistakes are mine, but the characters belong to Schwartz and company.   
The First Time: Ryan's First Fight 

The first time Ryan got in a fight, on a stale August evening just before he started sixth grade, he lost.

He lost in so many ways.

Ryan and Trey were collapsed on the couch in rumpled heaps, lethargically watching TV when Dawn emerged from her bedroom.

"Okay, out, you two," she ordered, struggling to fasten the back of her dress as she teetered unsteadily on four-inch heels. "Nicky's gonna be here soon, and . . . oh fuck, I jammed it. Trey, zip this up for me, will ya?" She knocked Trey's feet off the coffee table and stood in front of him, shaking her hair over her shoulder and out of his way.

Ryan clicked off the television and stared at the empty screen. He hated it whenever Dawn wandered out half-dressed, pale expanses of skin exposed in a way that slurred "Woman," but mocked the word "Mother." It didn't seem right, it couldn't be right, for her sons to see her that way, but Dawn never seemed to mind, shambling through the house in her slip, or slumping at the table in a nearly sheer negligee.

The best Ryan could do was to avoid looking at her.

Trey snorted at the flapping fabric of his mother's dress, but he leaned forward and yanked up the zipper. "What?" he scoffed. "The maid quit today, so I gotta fill in? And who the hell is Nicky anyway? How come you're fixing him dinner while Ry and I have to eat whatever junk we can find?"

"Trey!" Dawn exclaimed, flinching. "Watch it will ya? You caught my hair, and it's . . . ow. Shit, why do I ever trust you to do something for me? Ry? Ryan, baby? Would you fix it for me? Don't pull now . . ."

Dawn sidled over to Ryan and slouched a bit so that he could reach the strands of hair tangled in the zipper's teeth. Obediently he twisted them free, trying to touch his mother as little as possible. Ryan's nose wrinkled and he held his breath as he worked. He hated the way his mother smelled anymore. There was nothing fresh or clean about her scent. It reminded Ryan of mold, sweetly rancid, or something that had begun to decay, dead flesh under a froth of wilted flowers.

"His name is Nick Acevedo," Dawn purred, fluffing her hair as Ryan released it. She turned around and flicked his nose playfully with her index finger. "And I'm makin' him dinner because, for your information, guys, Nick is the man who just might turn our lives around. Get us out of this hell hole, you know? Make us a real family again."

"Oh, got it," Trey mocked, propping his feet back up and scooping an overflowing handful of chips out of the bag at his elbow. "He's this week's candyass Prince Charming. Yeah, good luck with that fucking fairy tale, Mom. Let us know when you get to sappily ever after."

"You swear too much, Trey! I've told you, either talk to me with respect or keep your goddamn mouth shut." Dawn kicked his legs down again, and glared at the mess on the coffee table. "Now I said I wanted you two out of here before Nicky comes. But first, clean up this shit! What's he gonna think about us if he sees this pigsty? Trey--" Defiantly, Trey crammed more chips in his mouth, letting crumbs dribble from his hands and his lips. Dawn clenched her teeth, scowling in helpless fury. "Ryan?" she pleaded.

"I'll take care of it, Mom," Ryan promised. He hauled the garbage can in from the kitchen, scraped the trash into it, dusted the table's filmy surface with the flat of his hand, and then stacked the magazines into a neat pile.

Trey watched from the sofa, squinting in mingled amusement and scorn. "Better be careful, LB," he taunted. "You forgot to ask Mom how high before you jumped this time. Could be she wanted you to sweep the fucking floor for her too."

Ryan flushed, but he refused to take the bait. Trey always became edgy, eager to strike at any available target whenever Dawn introduced a new man into their lives. Ryan understood the impulse. He even shared it, but he didn't have the energy for his brother's exhausting war games tonight. It was just too hot, and there was no way he could win. This summer proved that. Ryan had spent all of his time trying simultaneously to stay out of Trey's and Dawn's way and still keep himself wedged firmly between them. Without some buffer, they hurt each other too badly, but deflecting their blows bruised Ryan too, left him tired, defensive and scarred.

At least, he reminded himself, school would start soon.

For six hours each day, five days a week, Ryan would have a refuge from both his mother and brother. He imagined himself sitting at his own desk, pristine paper in front of him, pencils sharpened to a fine point. At school, the rules weren't amorphous, and they didn't change every day. Posters spelled them out: be prompt, be prepared, be polite, be productive. Ryan loved how precise those words were, the fact that they held him responsible only for his own behavior. In class, every equation had a right answer, and if his didn't match, Ryan could find his mistake, or he could escape into books where conflicts might be resolved or not, but since the problems weren't his, Ryan could care from a distance, dispassionately.

Or not at all.

Less than two weeks to go. Just eleven more days. Ryan smiled to himself with anticipation.

"What the fuck?" Trey growled, noticing his brother's unexpected expression. "What's so funny? Are you laughing at me, Ry?"

Ryan blinked, Trey's voice wrenching him unwillingly back into their squalid living room. "What?" he stammered. "No, Trey. I was just . . . thinking about something else, that's all. School."

"Huh." Trey narrowed his eyes balefully, unconvinced, but before he could say anything else, Dawn yanked him to his feet.

"Out!" she ordered. "You wanna argue with your brother, do it somewhere else, Trey. Nicky and I need some privacy here."

"Yeah?" Trey retorted, shaking off her arm. "You need the whole goddamn house? 'Cause don't you got, I don't know, a bedroom for anything fucking private? . . . Get it, Mom? 'Fucking' private?"

Dawn snapped five silver bracelets onto her wrist, her hand shaking slightly. "Trey," she warned. "Do not start with me. Nicky and I are just . . . we're getting to know each other, okay? That's all. He's really . . . he's really a good guy. And I want him to like me . . ." Her voice trailed off and her lips crimped into a line like a seeping wound. "God, it's not like I'm asking for so damn much here . . ."

Ryan saw Dawn's eyes fill, felt his own prickle dangerously in response. He gave his mother's hand a quick, secret squeeze. "Don't cry, Mom," he whispered. "He'll like you. And we're leaving now, right Trey?"

Trey sighed, relinquishing anger in the face of his mother's tears. "Yeah," he agreed wearily. "We're outta here. It's not like I want to meet this assho—this guy, anyway. Come on, Ry. Let's jet."

Dawn beamed, her moods light-switch quick and changeable whenever she was getting involved with a new man. She looped an arm roughly around Trey's neck, smearing a tangerine colored kiss onto his cheek, then twirled Ryan over and buried her face in his hair. "That's my guys!" she exclaimed happily. "Now you two have fun this evening. And look, don't come home before, say, maybe midnight, okay?" Her voice followed them to the porch. "And remember to knock when you get back! Don't just come walking in!"

"Yeah, not like it's our own goddamn house or anything," Trey grumbled as the screen door slammed behind them. "Midnight." He glared at Ryan accusingly. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you until midnight?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder, crouching to pull out some weeds that had pushed through a crack in the sidewalk. He didn't really know why he bothered. They always grew back before he could even enjoy the fact that they were gone. "I don't know," he answered. His voice wavered between guilt and resentment, because really, he knew, Trey didn't have to do anything with him. "Go to the movies, maybe?"

"Yeah, well, that'll kill about two hours, I guess. But a movie costs money. How much you got, Ry?"

"Um . . ." Ryan fumbled through his jeans pockets, despite the fact that he knew what wasn't there. "Nothing, I guess."

Trey rolled his eyes. "Well, then, going to the movies was a fucking great idea, genius. Why the hell does everybody think you're so goddamn smart? Or maybe you just figured I'd pay for you. Looking for a free ride, is that it, little brother? Well, I got, let's see, a buck seventeen. That won't even get one of us through the door. Fuck all anyway. . ." Abruptly, Trey hurdled off the porch, landing at the tree where he had his bike chained. He starting buffing its fire-red fender with the hem of his t-shirt, his brow furrowed, gaze unfocused and far away.

Just days before Trey had, as he announced proudly to Ryan, "traded-up." He had pedaled away in the morning on the ratty rebuilt two-wheeler that he'd acquired just after they moved to Chino, and coasted home, no-hands, on a sleek street bike that looked practically new.

"Shit, Trey," Ryan had breathed, awestruck. "What a sweet ride. Where . . . I mean, how did you get it?"

"You just gotta know the right people," Trey explained, voice nonchalant, but his eyes glinting proudly. "Gotta know how to do things."

"But how did you pay for it? This--" Ryan stroked the handlebars reverently. "This had to cost." He darted an appraising glance at his brother, checking to make sure no one could overhear. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

For just a moment, Trey's face darkened ominously. Then he fixed Ryan with an ingenuous expression clouded by hurt and betrayal. "I didn't steal the bike, Ry."

"Okay," Ryan murmured, biting his lip. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he added softly, "You swear?"

"Jeez! Fine, Ry, I swear. Happy now?" Trey shook his head in disgust, grabbing the handlebars and wrenching them out of Ryan's grasp. "You're just like Mom, you know that? Always thinking the worst about me. Trey's no good. Trey's a thief. Trey's a liar. You can never trust Trey . . ."

"No--" Ryan scrambled in front of the bike as his brother vaulted onto the seat. "I'm not like Mom. Come on, Trey, stop. I didn't mean. . ."

"The fuck you didn't." Trey pedaled once and Ryan stumbled backwards, retreating from the menacing wheel. "Move away, little brother. Unless you want me to run you down. Move away."

"Come on, Trey," Ryan repeated. He tried to keep his voice from pleading because Trey hated that, but an entreaty seeped through anyway. "I'm sorry, okay? I should have believed you."

Trey glared at him. "Damn straight, you should," he growled. "I'm your brother, Ry. You know what that means?"

"Yeah," Ryan nodded. "It means we're blood. So I should trust you, 'cause you wouldn't lie to me." He moved cautiously to the side of the bike, nudging Trey with his elbow. "And," he continued, taking a deep breath, "you wouldn't run me down either. Right?"

Trey scowled, but then, seeing Ryan's lips quirk into a hopeful grin, he smiled grudgingly and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "You don't think I would, huh? Well, not today, anyway, LB," he conceded. "Okay, climb on. I'll give you a ride. But be careful, understand? Do not scratch the finish or I will beat your sorry ass."

Now, as Trey polished the bike's mirror, Ryan could see his brother mulling ideas for escape. He knew with sad certainty that none of those plans would involve him unless it was as an unwanted afterthought. As much as he hated the thought of tagging along, Ryan didn't want to be left behind either. There had to be something he and Trey could do together. Something that didn't cost any money.

His eyes darted around, looking for inspiration, just as the sound of laughter floated out of a window next door. "How about . . . we see if Arturo and Theresa are home?" Ryan suggested. If the four of them did something together, he wouldn't just be included as Trey's baby brother; he would be there as Theresa's friend. "Maybe we could all hang out or something?"

Ryan could feel his cheeks flaming and he ducked his head, hoping Trey wouldn't notice. Recently, his brother had started making crude comments about Ryan's and Theresa's relationship, blowing wet kisses between pursed lips and thrusting a finger up and down through a loose fist whenever he saw them together. It embarrassed and angered Ryan, but worse, it made him feel . . . itchy somehow, slightly unclean, and dizzy.

Ever since they moved to Fresno, Ryan had watched Trey shuffle girls like well-thumbed cards, in and out of his hands, in and out of his life. If that's what happened with girlfriends—a few days or weeks of roiling passion that for some reason rotted into venomous jokes or complete apathy—Ryan was determined never to connect with Theresa that way, no matter what.

She was his best friend.

Ryan wanted her to be his friend forever. Even though, as his unruly body had begun to remind him, she definitely was a girl.

"Trey?" he prompted. "What do you think? You, me, Turo, Theresa . . . We haven't hung out since they went to visit their grandmother."

Ryan waited while his brother considered the idea. Finally, Trey tapped out a cigarette, striking the match against a step. "Why the fuck not?" he replied listlessly. "I got no other ideas. And you and Theresa can baby-sit each other, I guess. C'mon, Ry."

Before they were halfway across the yard, Trey was already yelling, "Yo! Turo? You home, dude?"

Theresa's mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "I have asked you before, Trey, do not shout for my son," she said sternly. "It takes only two seconds to ring the bell." Ryan scuffed his feet, self-conscious at the reproach, and her expression softened. "How are you, Nino? Eh, I can tell you . . . You are hungry and you need a haircut."

Ryan shook his bangs back from his eyes, smiling shyly. "You always say that."

"And it is always true." Theresa's mother opened the door and stood to one side. "Come in. Theresa is just putting away what is left from our dinner. She would love it if you would eat and make less work for her."

Trey shuffled in place, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, that's really nice of you," he mumbled, "but actually, Ry and I were wondering if Turo and Theresa might want to just hang out for a while."

Theresa's mother frowned. "Hang out?" she repeated dubiously.

"You know, Mama—spend time together," Arturo clarified as he came in from the living room. He rapped Trey's fist lightly. "Hey, man. 'Sup? I thought you and Denise had something going tonight."

Ryan glanced furtively at his brother. He had overheard Trey's latest girlfriend screaming that afternoon—something about money missing from her mother's purse, and how could Trey fucking do that to her—but his brother had explained nothing about what had happened between them.

"Yeah, well, we don't," Trey snapped. "Denise is a--" He bit off the word, finishing awkwardly, "We broke up, that's all. I got tired of her pissy demands all the time . . . So, whaddya say, Turo? You and Theresa want to hang with us for a while?"

"Yes, we do," Theresa announced, joining the group at the door. She waved at Ryan, a welcome wreathing her face. "Don't we Turo?"

Arturo shrugged. "Sure. Why not? That okay, Mama?"

His mother glanced from Theresa to Ryan, shaking her head at their hopeful expressions. "Well, as long as you keep an eye on your sister, I suppose it is all right, Turo," she conceded. "Ryan? Theresa could wrap up some empanadas for you to eat when you get to the park. Would you like that? And some for you, Trey?"

Ryan's eyes darted to Trey's face, trying to predict his likely response. Lately his brother's pride had begun to take perverse forms Ryan couldn't understand. It was a simple offer--just some leftover empanadas--but Ryan suspected Trey would refuse, and he was suddenly too hungry to give him the chance.

"Yes please. Empanadas would be great," Ryan answered promptly. "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, he was clutching a brown lunch bag, one fold stained with a line of fragrant grease, waiting for Trey to unlock his bike. Theresa was already perched on Turo's handlebars, balancing easily while her brother pedaled in place.

Trey straddled his own bike. His eyes slowly traversed the smooth length of Theresa's thighs, lingering on the curve of her buttocks. "Bet you'd like to be sittin' in Turo's seat right now, huh, Ry?" he observed. "Because that--" Trey rolled the word around his tongue, coating it with thick innuendo, "is one sweet little view."

Ryan froze in the act of climbing behind his brother, and the blue of his eyes iced over. "Shut up, Trey," he hissed, his hands clenching to fists.

"What?" Trey glanced back with faux-innocence. "I'm just sayin' L.B."

Ryan gritted his teeth. He pitched his voice low, wishing it had more authority. "And I'm saying don't talk about Theresa like that."

Trey raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, sorry, Ry," he drawled. "Don't worry, she's all yours. I got no designs on your girl."

"She's not--" Ryan protested, but then he caught the flash of Trey's smug smile and clamped his mouth shut.

Almost.

He had almost gotten sucked into one of his brother's mind games again.

Silence was Ryan's only real weapon when Trey got into one of these antagonistic moods. He stood rigidly on the bike pegs as they careened down the street, clutching the edge of the seat for support, but refusing to hold on to his brother's shoulders the way he used to do.

He didn't trust Trey not to shrug him off.

Every time the bike jumped a curb, veered wildly around a parked car, raced through an intersection, Ryan braced himself for a fall. When Trey finally swung to a stop at the park entrance, he exhaled with relief.

Inside, a scabbed stretch of grass surrounded some pieces of sun-bleached playground equipment. At one end, there was an untended baseball diamond that long ago eroded to dust and weeds, and on the other side a wire fence bordered a pock-marked basketball court with rims, but no baskets. That was the park. Even though it was intended for families, teenagers really owned the place, especially at dusk. They played hoops sometimes, or craps, or poker, but never baseball, and they often conducted their drug deals in a slice of shade under the sliding board or in the deserted dugout.

Right now, though, the place looked abandoned.

"Shit. Man, there better be some action around here tonight," Trey complained, kicking a stray tennis ball. "I didn't come all the way over here just to climb the fucking monkey bars."

Turo shrugged. "It's early, man." He glanced at Theresa and Ryan, who had climbed off the bikes, and lowered his voice. "You got any money on you? You know, in case?"

"Nah," Trey admitted. "But as long as the right guys show up, I got plenty of credit." He lifted his front wheel off the ground and bounced it experimentally. "Wanna race, man? See what this baby's got? Say, twice around the park?"

Turo compared the sleek expanse of Trey's bike to his own squat five-speed. "Yeah, 'cause that'd be fair."

"Come on," Trey urged. "Shit, it's not like we got anything else to do. Besides, Ryan and Theresa probably want some time alone. Don't you, Ry? Need some privacy with your girl?"

"Trey . . ." Ryan flushed, and his eyes flashed a warning. At the same time, Turo reached over and cuffed Trey hard on the neck.

"That's my little sister," he growled. "You watch your fucking mouth." Then he glared fiercely at Ryan. "And you, hombrecito, you watch your hands . . . Okay, Trey, you're on. Theresa?"

Theresa raised one arm. She waited until Trey and Turo crouched over their handlebars and then sliced her hand down, jumping aside as the bikes flew past her.

Ryan shaded his eyes to watch the progress of the race, coughing a little in the flurry of dust. "Theresa . . ." he began awkwardly. "About what your brother said. I really don't . . ."

Theresa threw back her head, blue-black curls throbbing with indignation. "Oh fuck them, Ryan. Estúpido, both of them. They think they're so much, and they're nothing. I hope they fall flat on their sorry asses, first my brother, then yours."

Ryan's eyes sparkled, both at the prospect and in relief at Theresa's reaction. "Yeah, that would be awesome," he agreed. "So . . . what do you want to do? 'Cause, you know, we have so many choices here." He surveyed the park with an ironic smile that slowly dissolved into something like sadness.

This place was supposed to be nice—a refuge, a little pocket of play and ease and serenity. But everything Ryan saw looked rusty, worn beyond any hope of redemption.

Theresa, he thought, deserved someplace better than this.

Hell, all of them did.

Theresa followed Ryan's gaze, her own eyes melancholy as they took in the blistered benches, the uneven sidewalk and lopsided swing set. "Pretty shitty place, huh?"

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. He leaned against a tree, idly swatting his leg with the lunch bag he was holding. "You ever think of living somewhere else, Theresa?"

She cocked her head, considering his question. "Sure, I think about it," she answered. "But I don't know if I ever will. You know . . . my family's here."

"Family," Ryan repeated tonelessly. "Right. Mine too, I guess."

Theresa watched him for a moment, frowning. Then she grabbed the lunch bag, pulled out an empanada and waved it tantalizingly under Ryan's nose. "You want to eat this?" she teased. "Or should I feed it to the dogs?"

"Hey!" Ryan protested, snatching it back. "Your mom gave that to me. And anyway, there are no dogs around."

"Yeah, I know," Theresa said slyly. "They're off riding their bikes."

His mouth already full, Ryan choked on a laugh, and Theresa giggled. She sank down in one fluid motion, stretching her arms out and leaning back, waiting for him to finish eating. "So . . . anything happen around here while I was away?"

Ryan shrugged. He picked up a stick and swirled designs in the dirt.

"Not really," he muttered. "Well, my mom—she got a new job at the Shell convenience store. It's part-time, but, you know, it's something." After a pause he added, his voice barely audible, "And she's maybe got a new boyfriend too."

Theresa looked at him sharply. "So that's why you and Trey are both out tonight?"

"Kinda."

"Have you met this guy?"

"No," Ryan admitted. "But Mom says he's really nice." The last word stuck in his throat, and he stabbed the stick he was holding into the dirt.

"Well, I hope she's right. This time," Theresa murmured. Her fingers skimmed the back of his hand like a whisper and Ryan swallowed, not sure how to accept the touch, whether it meant understanding or pity, or maybe something more.

He was still trying to figure out what he wanted to say when a spray of gravel bounced off his chest. Trey skidded sideways to a stop inches from Ryan's feet, snickering over his shoulder at Turo who lagged several yards behind.

"Jeez, Trey!" Ryan exclaimed. He glanced at Theresa, who was finger-combing pebbles out of her hair, her fine brows drawn together in fury. "Watch it, will you?"

Trey shrugged and dismounted, leaning his bike against a tree. "Winner gets the right of way, Ry."

"Some winner," Turo argued as he pulled up. He hunched over his handlebars for a moment, panting, before he continued. "You fucking cut me off twice, Trey. And you just about knocked me into the street. Shit, my great-grandmother could have won, racing that bike, but you got to cheat?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where'd you get a ride like that anyway? The something for nothing mart, right?"

Ryan waited for his brother's denial, but Trey just bit viciously into an empanada and flipped Turo off. "He didn't steal it, Turo," Ryan explained. "Trey traded his old bike and well, some other stuff, for that one."

"Shit, Ry," Turo snorted. "There is no fucking way. Trey couldn't have gotten that bike if he traded your house. Bet you still believe in the tooth fairy too . . . Come on, Theresa. We're going home."

Theresa hesitated, looking at Ryan helplessly. Then she sighed and climbed onto her brother's bike. "Sorry," she murmured. "Trey and Turo . . ." She shook her head in wordless disgust.

"I know," Ryan agreed. He raised a hand in farewell, then turned back to Trey, accusation clear on his face.

"What the fuck's that look for, Ry?" Trey demanded. "Turo's just a sore loser, that's all." He dug through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and slumped against the trunk of the tree.

"So now what do we do?"

Trey closed his eyes. "Me? I'm gonna sit here and smoke," he said wearily. "I don't give a fuck what you do, Ry."

"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "I kinda got that . . ." He ran a tentative finger around the spokes of the front tire. "Trey--"

"No," Trey snapped. "You can't ride it. Hands off the bike, Ry."

That wasn't the question Ryan had wanted to ask, but he yanked his hand back as if it had been burned, wondering if he had his answer anyway. "I'm just . . . I'm gonna walk around awhile, okay?"

"Whatever," Trey shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette.

A few other people were in the park now, boys mostly, Trey's age or older. Ryan ignored them. He wandered aimlessly, watching color bleed from the sky, wishing it weren't turning so dull gray and empty.

When he had been very little, Ryan remembered, Dawn used to hold him on the porch, cheek pressed warm against his, pointing out shooting stars.

It seemed like he never saw stars anymore.

Maybe they'd all burned themselves out when he was a baby.

Ryan picked up another stick as he turned toward the spot where he'd left Trey. He broke off tiny pieces, dropping one with each dragging step, in no hurry to rejoin his brother. Eyes fixed on the path he was creating, he didn't see what was happening until he heard shouting and grunts, and his head jerked up in alarm.

Ryan registered everything at once. One boy holding Trey's bike, Trey rolling on the ground, someone on top of him, a hand—he didn't know whose—reaching for a rock.

An incoherent yell tore out of his throat and Ryan catapulted forward. He scrabbled onto the back of the kid pinning Trey, kicking and punching, one fist still holding the jagged end of his stick. The boy underneath jerked in surprise, rearing back, creating enough space for Trey to slam a knee into his groin.

Ryan heard a muffled groan and felt himself falling. He landed flat on the baked earth, crushed between the ground and the body on top of him. For a few panicked moments, he lay stunned, a knife twist of pain inside his chest telling him he couldn't breathe.

He couldn't. Breathe.

Then Trey yanked the boy on top of him off and Ryan pushed himself to his feet. Trey was laughing now—laughing—throwing the kid roughly against the tree. Ryan shook his head, gulped in air, and launched himself sideways, at the boy holding Trey's bike.

"Let—go," he panted, kicking and trying to pry the kid's hands away. "My brother's bike—let go!"

"The fuck! This is my bike! Your asshole brother stole it. Now I'm takin' it back."

"What?" Ryan gasped dizzily. "No . . ."

It was one second of hesitation, but long enough for the boy to hook a foot around Ryan's leg, throwing him off balance and back to the ground.

"No?" he demanded. He grabbed Ryan's hair, dragging his face to the wheel, almost smashing it into the fender. "See those initials? R.K.? Know who that is, little shit? That's me, Rueben Kamenos. This is my fucking bike, got it?" He backhanded Ryan's face, opening a cut with his ring and drawing blood.

Then there were other blows. Confused and in pain, Ryan lost track, until he felt arms pulling him away, heard Trey shout, "Just take the goddamn bike, okay?" More yells, sneering laughter, and then just Trey's voice, tired and gruff in his ear, "Shit, Ry. You couldn't just stay out of it?"

Ryan licked his lips, gagging on the taste of metal and salt. He tried to twist around and look at his brother, but Trey's arms were wrapped tight, holding him still.

"You hurt, Ry?" Trey asked. He snorted, then clarified, "Yeah, I mean, I get that you're hurt, but are you, really?"

"I don't know," Ryan murmured. "I guess . . . no, I'm not. Not really hurt. You?"

Trey let him go then, although he kept one hand on Ryan's back. "Nah," he said casually, even though Ryan could see fresh bruises on his face and arms. "Bike's gone though."

"Yeah, bike's gone," Ryan echoed dully. He pulled away from Trey's grip and stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the tree trunk. "Rueben Kamenos' bike, right Trey? Not yours."

Trey's mouth twisted in an ironic smile. "Yeah. Shit, what are the odds, huh? Kid doesn't even live anywhere around here. Just one more case of the fucking Atwood luck." He pulled off his shirt, and reached over to wipe Ryan's face with it, but Ryan flinched, backing away and gritting his teeth.

"You lied to me, Trey. You swore you didn't steal it."

"Come on, LB," Trey protested impatiently. "Don't be a goddamn baby. You know I lie sometimes. Fuck, everybody does. It's not a big deal."

"I know you lie to Mom," Ryan conceded. His eyes were locked on the ground, and he pitched his voice there too. "But I thought that was 'cause . . . I mean, you don't trust Mom. But you lied to me too." Ryan's gaze lifted, disillusioned and bleak. "Don't you trust me either Trey?"

"Jeez, Ryan!" Trey exploded. "Don't pull this guilt shit on me. I just saved your sorry ass here. If you hadn't gotten involved—"

Ryan's breathing became shallow and quick, as if he were fighting again. "I was trying to help you, Trey."

"Who asked you?" Trey snapped. He stood up, towering over Ryan. "You think you're some fucking hero, LB? 'Cause you're not. You think you're better than me?"

"No, Trey."

"Damn straight, no," Trey erupted, rage boiling over, steaming the air around them. "I don't care what people tell you—your teachers with all their pussyass 'Ryan's so smart," 'Ryan's got so much potential', or Mom always cooing about how you're so good and sweet and responsible, and how she can count on her Ryan." Trey swiped at some blood congealing on the side of his mouth, then grabbed Ryan's arm, smearing it over an oozing cut there. "This," he snarled. "This is who you are. You and me, we're blood Ryan. Where it counts, you and me are exactly the same."

Ryan didn't want to believe it. But he when he raised his eyes to Trey's face, it was a mirror image, reflecting his own longing and inchoate despair.

This time, Ryan was afraid Trey might be telling the truth.

Maybe they were exactly the same.

Except . . . Trey had also accused Ryan of being like Dawn. He couldn't be like both of them, could he?

Ryan had no idea who he was anymore.


	7. 7: Abandonment

Apparently, I've lost all control of this series. This episode was supposed to be Ryan's first date, but . . . it's not. The date will be the next update (at least I think so.) But Trey keeps pushing himself into the middle of these stories, and here he is again. 

I blame the season finale.

Anyway, insert standard disclaimer here.

And by the way, chronologically, this would follow Ryan's First Kiss.

The First Time: Abandonment The first time anyone abandoned Ryan he was eight and his dad disappeared from his life, somewhere into the gray maze of the prison system. But the first time Ryan really felt abandoned was in the spring of sixth grade, when Trey moved out of their house. 

Maybe that was the difference. His father never meant to leave Ryan. Not really. Not at that time. He had been driven away forcibly, in a police car, with no way that he could even open the door.

Trey just rode off on his bike. And he didn't look back.

The light changed, green to yellow to red, five times while Ryan lingered at the last intersection before his block. He spent the time savoring deep drags on his stub of a cigarette, switching his book bag from side to side, kicking the telephone pole and scuffing the toes of his shoes aimlessly against the curb.

A horn blared, and a voice—maybe familiar; he wasn't sure--shouted something out a car window, but Ryan didn't look up. He just hunched his shoulders, kneading away sweat at the nape of his neck.

It was no good. He couldn't stand in one spot forever.

Besides, Ryan realized, no matter how slowly he moved, he would only postpone the inevitable: at some point, he would still arrive home.

_I wish_, he thought, watching the jaunty pedestrian "Walk" sign blink on, _that there was a traffic light above my front door. _Just something—some code--to let him know when it was safe to enter, especially now, since there was always the chance that Dawn's latest boyfriend, Marcus, might be sprawled on the living room couch. Eating their food. Drinking. Sucking up way too much space and oxygen. Permeating the room with his bulk and his smell.

A red light, and Ryan would head straight to the library, or duck next door to see if Theresa was home.

Yellow, and he'd sit outside on the porch, shifting position to follow the shade.

Green, and he would go inside. And maybe his mom would greet him with a kiss and slice of bread thick with peanut butter, or Trey would grab him in a mock chokehold and wrestle him to the living room floor, where they'd lounge companionably, watching videos.

Green, Ryan decided, was definitely his favorite color.

Above him, the traffic light changed again and he sighed, hoisting his book bag higher as he trudged across the street.

"_Every man got a treasure."_ That had been a line in the story his English class read just before the final bell. Ryan repeated the words to himself as he walked, weighing their truth. _"Every man got a treasure."_ His fingers dug into his left pocket and touched his father's chain. It nestled there alone. Ryan kept all his other stuff on the right side—coins, matches, rubber bands, smudged pieces of paper with messages that once seemed important; but the chain deserved a space of its own.

Even if it wasn't his treasure.

Even if the story was wrong, and Ryan didn't have one at all.

Bracing himself, Ryan flicked away his cigarette butt so he and his mom could both still pretend that he didn't smoke. He squared his shoulders, counting off all the houses he passed, picking one to redesign in his imagination. Maybe he'd give it bay windows . . . a fireplace . . . a wraparound porch . . . a curving driveway . . . a deck in the back . . .

It was a trick, to keep Ryan's mind off the prospect of what he might find inside his front door. Sometimes it worked.

Today, it didn't.

As soon as he turned the corner, he could hear it—a chaos of cries, muffled thuds, occasional fractured oaths—pouring from his house. For one instant Ryan froze, uncannily cold in the sweltering afternoon sun, before he charged down the street, legs, heart, pulse all pumping, racing even faster than his confused thoughts. His hands were already locked into white-knuckled fists.

"Ryan!" Theresa's voice seemed unnaturally high, and very far away. "Ryan, wait! Don't!"

She caught his arm just as he reached the bottom of the steps, and the urgency of her touch jerked Ryan to a standstill so abrupt that they both nearly fell.

"My mom--" he panted, pulling away. Theresa clung tighter. Her nails imprinted his skin, although Ryan scarcely noticed the pain. "Shit, Theresa! Let go! My mom--"

"Don't go in there. Ryan. Your mom is okay. Listen."

His mind was full of noise—the scrambled roar of a hundred remembered screams, wails, promises--and Ryan wasn't sure he could hear anything through that cacophony, yet somehow the sounds from his house separated themselves. He couldn't discern individual words, but he recognized the voices.

Shaking his head, Ryan blinked, tried to focus, tried to catch his breath. "What?" he murmured dazedly. "Trey?"

Theresa nodded.

"But Trey—what's he doing home now?" It didn't make sense. Despite the fact that the high school dismissed twenty minutes before middle school, his brother never arrived home before Ryan did. Not anymore. Not since Dawn started seeing Marcus. Whether he went to classes or ditched, Trey always loitered somewhere else—anywhere else—throughout the evening, usually scrounging dinner with friends and slouching home just in time to collapse into bed.

Or sometimes too late even for that. Sometimes Trey only had time to shrug on a clean t-shirt before he was gone again.

"I don't know why he's home," Theresa said. "But he—they came home together, Ry, Trey and your mom. About five minutes ago. They've been yelling ever since."

"But Mom's supposed to be at work. Why would she and Trey . . .?" Absently, Ryan rubbed the spot on his wrist scored by Theresa's nails. He frowned slightly, thinking, and then his eyes widened in alarm. "He's not there in there too, is he? Theresa, is Marcus--"

Theresa shook her head an emphatic no. "He's not home," she insisted. "Look, Ry—his truck's not even here. See? Your mom is okay. She and Trey—they're just arguing, that's all. Don't get in the middle of it. You know what happens when you get in the middle." She slid her hand up Ryan's arm, tugging his elbow gently. "Sit on my porch with me, okay? Until Trey comes out. Or . . .?"

"Okay." Reluctantly, Ryan tore his gaze away from his closed front door. "Yeah, I guess. Okay. Thanks."

He let Theresa lead him to her steps, sitting down sideways so he could still watch his house.

"You want something to drink, Ryan? Some lemonade maybe?"

"Nah," he murmured. "I'm good. But go ahead and get some for yourself if you want."

"No. I'm good too." Theresa dropped down next to him, her shoulder grazing his, just enough contact to remind Ryan that she was there. "Maybe Trey got in trouble at school, and the principal called your mom in for a conference," she suggested.

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe," he agreed doubtfully. "Except . . . I don't think Mom would go." He grimaced, recalling the last time Dawn had been summoned to Trey's school.

Less than a week after starting his freshman year, Trey had instigated a fight in the parking lot, and had wound up swinging on a teacher before security guards hauled him away. Ryan had just arrived home when the principal called. No, he had reported, his mom wasn't there, and no, he didn't have another number for her, but the man was insistent that they had to talk, so Ryan had walked to the corner drugstore to deliver the message.

"What the fuck are you doing, coming to me about this, Ry?" Dawn had hissed furiously. "I'm working here!" She slammed the last boxes of hair dye onto the shelf, rattling the entire display.

The manager looked up from the register, his face creased with irritation. "Dawn?" he demanded. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sorry. I just . . . it's my kid," Dawn explained. She raked her nails nervously through her tangled hair. "Not this one . . . his brother. The school called. He . . . he got sick or something. They want me to come get him."

"Oh." The man's expression softened to one of concern. "Well, go ahead then," he urged. "I'll mark your timecard. Family comes first. Dawn."

"Yeah," she muttered. "Family first. Thanks." Outside the door she yanked Ryan's arm, tugging him after her as she turned toward the school.

Ryan winced. "Mom," he protested. "Let go. I'll wait for you guys at home, okay?"

"Just shut the fuck up, Ry. You're coming with me. I don't need to be worryin' right now about the trouble you could get into at home alone."

_You never worry about that_, Ryan had thought, but he swallowed, the acid taste of betrayal burning his throat, and said nothing.

Outside the principal's office Dawn had pushed him down onto a bench and ordered, "Don't move."

Ryan caught a glimpse of Trey wadding a bloody washcloth against his upper lip. Then Dawn banged the door behind her, but its solid wood only shut out the sights, not the sounds. Ryan could hear everything.

"Mrs. Atwood—" the principal began, before Dawn interrupted, her voice sharp and venomous.

"I'm gonna say this one time. You got a problem with my kid? You deal with it," she spat. "That means, you wanna call the cops on him? Call them. You wanna suspend his ass? Fill out the damn paperwork and kick him to the curb. I got a job. I can't be runnin' up here every time he gets in trouble, playin' those make-nice games and sayin' I'll talk to him, and this will never happen again. Trey stopped listenin' to me when he was ten. And whatever he's done? Shit, I guarantee it'll happen again until he gets bored or somebody whips his ass for it. So if you wanna do that, you got my permission. Now, I gotta get back to work. Let's go, Trey."

"Mrs. Atwood," the principal protested as the door opened. "Your attitude here is not helping your son—"

Dawn shoved Trey out in front of her, despite his hissed "Hands off me, Mom!" "Hey," she argued. "I'm not givin' you attitude, mister. I'm being honest here. You're on your own with this one. So don't call me again. Got it? Trey, Ryan--we're getting' the hell out of here, guys. Move it. Now."

Ryan shuddered, remembering. He wrapped his arms around himself, accidentally jostling Theresa's elbow. "Sorry," he murmured, darting an apologetic glance from under his bangs.

"'S'okay." Theresa grinned and poked him back playfully. "I don't bruise that easy."

Ryan's mouth curved in an uncertain smile.

All of a sudden, it seemed strange to him--sitting this close, alone with Theresa. Something had shifted in their friendship three months ago, after she caught him kissing Mica under the bleachers. Ryan could sense the difference, but he couldn't define it. In many ways, Theresa remained the same girl he'd always known: she still sneaked extra sandwiches into his lunch bag, still raced him the last two blocks to school every morning even though she always lost, still taught him Spanish swear words that he could use to describe Dawn's boyfriends.

And her eyes still lit up at the sight of him.

Yet there was . . . something.

Thinking about it, he realized: Theresa didn't share her secrets with him anymore. Even though, just like now, she knew all of his.

And she had begun to change physically, too, in ways Ryan pretended to ignore. He could choose not to look at her body—not too closely, anyway, or at least not on purpose--but he couldn't avoid the new timbre of her voice, dark, creamy, layered with mystery. It reminded Ryan of a thick chocolate milkshake, only warm, which made no sense at all because nothing about Theresa ever melted away.

She was strong, solid and real. Ryan knew that.

He counted on that.

"Hey," Theresa prompted, wiggling her fingers in front of his eyes. "Earth to Ry . . . Come in, Ryan. So what do you think Trey and your mom are arguing about anyway?"

Ryan rubbed his knuckles across his teeth. "Don't know," he sighed. "But they always find something . . . At least if Marcus isn't there . . ."

"He's not," Theresa insisted.

She shifted position on the porch beside Ryan, stretching her arms behind her and leaning back so that her hair almost brushed the floor. Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He dropped his eyes to his lap, picking at the unraveling fabric around a rip that had opened over one knee, forcing his gaze away from Theresa. Under her thin pink t-shirt, he could glimpse faint swellings that hadn't been there last fall. They were accentuated by the way her back was arched, and they aroused the same tight itchiness that Ryan got when he flipped through Trey's magazines in their deserted bedroom.

"Theresa," he blurted, at the same time that Theresa began, "Ryan . . ."

They both laughed self-consciously.

"Ladies first," Ryan offered, because he really didn't know what he had planned to say anyway.

"Ooh," Theresa teased. "Such a gentleman." She swung her head, her dark curls dancing dangerously close to Ryan's face, and studied the porch ceiling with apparent interest. "Okay. So you know Turo's girlfriend? Camille? She's having a birthday party Saturday night. Her Quinceanera."

Ryan twisted the threads he'd pulled out of his jeans around his index finger. "Yeah? That's an important one, right?"

Theresa nodded. "Very. And I'm invited." She gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Probably just because I'm Turo's sister, 'cause I think everyone else there will be older. But anyway, Camille said I could bring a . . . guest." Her fingers tapped a nervous pattern on the concrete.

Ryan's eyes slid sideways, fascinated by the flash of Theresa's shell-pink nails. "Yeah?" he asked hoarsely.

"Mmm-hmm. So I wondered, would you . . . like to go?"

"You mean with you?"

Theresa swatted Ryan's knee and then looked away, blushing. "Well, duh. Of course with me . . . Want to, Ryan?"

"I . . . Okay. Yeah." Ryan's voice sounded gravelly to his own ears. He cleared his throat before adding, "Sounds like fun."

"Just as friends," Theresa claimed hastily. "I mean . . . you know, not like you and Mica or anything."

Ryan felt a blush burnish his skin. "Yeah. Friends," he echoed. He touched a spot just under the neck of his t-shirt, where a faded hickey marked his most recent encounter with Mica. They still met sometimes, under the bleachers, or in the alley outside the school, just to kiss.

They kissed a lot actually, but they almost never talked, not even when they were alone. Ryan didn't know what that meant.

Probably, he told himself, it meant nothing at all.

"Look, Theresa . . . about Mica and me—"

Whatever Ryan had meant to explain was lost in the gunshot-loud slam of his front door behind Trey as he bolted out of the Atwood house.

Instantly Ryan scrambled to his feet. "Trey!" he shouted. "Wait up! . . . Theresa, I've got to . . ."

"No, I know. Go," Theresa urged. "I'll see you Saturday, though, right? Seven?"

"Yeah . . . seven." Ryan didn't even risk a goodbye glance over his shoulder as he vaulted off the porch and raced into his yard. "Trey," he demanded, clutching at his brother, "what's going on?"

Trey was fumbling with his bike lock. It refused to open, and he swore viciously, shaking the chain. "Fuck. Off!" he snarled when Ryan grabbed his arm. Blindly, he whipped his elbow backwards. It caught Ryan's cheekbone, and both boys yelped with surprise and pain. "Shit, Ry! Why the hell do you always got to get in my way? Just this once will you fucking back off?"

"Okay. But tell me where you're going, all right, Trey? Don't just take off." Trey shot Ryan a feral look that made him stumble back in alarm. "You're scaring me, man," he whispered. "Come on. Calm down. Please?"

"Fine!" As if that one word damped the fire inside him, Trey collapsed against the steps. He gestured grimly to the bike before he dropped his head on his knees, fists clutching his hair. "Get that fucking lock off for me, Ry. I can't . . ."

Ryan swiped at his face furtively, scrubbing the blood onto his jeans. "Okay. Yeah. But just . . . what the hell happened, Trey?"

Behind them, the front door swung open, and Dawn stormed out on the porch. "Forgot this, didn't you?" she demanded, flinging Trey's bulging gym bag down next to him. Its zipper was mashed into a sweatshirt whose sleeve dangled outside. "You want to know what happened, Ry?" Dawn laughed a little hysterically, her fingers splayed and shaking at her side. "I'll tell you what happened."

"He didn't ask you," Trey muttered into his clenched hands. Each word was clipped, a separate aimed weapon. "He was talkin' to me."

"Your smartass brother here got himself expelled, that's what happened."

The lock slid out of Ryan's grasp and clanked against the metal of the bike spokes. "Expelled?" he stammered. "Trey?"

"That's right," Dawn raged. "Expelled. I get called from my goddamn job to come to school because my son's been caught making—what did they call it--unwanted sexual advances toward a young lady. This is what I'm raising? A kid who gets thrown out of school because he can't keep it in his fucking pants? What's the matter, Trey? You don't get enough from your ho of a girlfriend, so you have to try and take it--?"

Trey's fists tightened convulsively. "Shut up, Mom," he warned.

Dawn waved a dismissive hand in his direction, before looking at Ryan, her eyes haunted and desperate. "They start quoting this goddamn student handbook at me, baby, like I give a shit, and talking about the girl's parents maybe pressing charges. What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?" She snorted. "No, you know what? Let them. Let them press charges. Why the hell not? It's just a matter of time before Trey winds up in jail like your dad anyway. Shit, I'm surprised he's not there already."

Ryan glanced anxiously at Trey and shook his head. "Mom," he gasped, "don't—"

"No. You don't," Dawn snapped. "Don't you defend your brother, Ry. Not this time." She spun around, pointing a trembling index finger at Trey. "But I'll tell you this, smartass. The school don't want you? Well, I don't either. Find yourself someplace else to live, Trey. This isn't your home, not anymore—"

Trey's head jerked up. "When was it ever? Mom."

For a long moment, the last word hung in the air, laden with malice and accusation, while Trey and Dawn glared at each other. Neither of them seemed willing to look away. Ryan shrank down, eyes darting between them, holding his breath the way he had once in the moments after a minor earthquake, wondering when it would be safe to move.

If it ever would be safe again.

Then Dawn turned abruptly and stamped inside, slamming the door so fiercely that it rattled four times in the frame before it closed.

Ryan inched closer to his brother, careful not to touch him. "She didn't mean it," he said finally, into the silence.

"What?" Trey's face was buried in his arms again, so the question emerged muffled and rough.

"When she said this isn't your home. It is. She's just . . .Mom's mad right now. You know how she gets, man. Just give her a chance to cool off."

"Jeez, Ry!" Trey pushed himself up and wheeled on Ryan, hauling him to his feet. "You think I give a fuck that she kicked me out? Hell, I was going anyway. I should fucking thank her. At least now I won't get in trouble for staying away from this shitass place." He grabbed the handlebars of his bike and pulled, but it was still chained to the tree. "God damn it! You were supposed to get the lock off for me, Ryan! I ask you to do one lousy thing . . ."

Ryan knelt back down, fumbling with the combination. "Sorry, Trey . . . Here." He removed the chain reluctantly and handed it to his brother. "Where are you gonna go?"

"Not sure. Maybe Eddie's, at least for tonight." Trey shrugged, straddling the bike. He shook out a cigarette, suddenly calm, and offered the pack to Ryan. "Want a last smoke with me, little brother?"

Ryan licked his lips. "Sure," he agreed. "Listen, Trey . . . Do you need any money? Or anything?"

Trey's mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. "Shit, Ry, if you wanna give me money, yeah, hand it over. Never say no, man."

Ryan dug through his pockets, sheepishly held out a small handful of change. "Sorry it's not more."

"Yeah," Trey replied wryly. "You and me both." He took a long drag on his cigarette and massaged the back of his neck. Unconsciously, Ryan mirrored his movements. "So . . . aren't you gonna ask, little brother?"

"Ask what?"

"You know. What happened at school."

Ryan shifted uncomfortably. He dug the heel of his palm into his thigh, then shoved both hands deep in his pockets. "Nah," he claimed, and amended, more firmly, "No. But I mean, that sucks, Trey. Getting expelled."

Trey snorted. "Like I was gonna graduate anyway. Yeah, Trey the Cut King Atwood in a fucking cap and gown." He cuffed Ryan's cheek affectionately. "Pretty funny, right, Ry?"

"Right." Ryan sketched a broken smile, but his gaze faltered. It was too hard to look into his brother's eyes and say the things Trey wanted to hear. "A cap and gown," he mocked weakly. "Yeah, it's like the school wants one last chance to embarrass you before they let you out. You're lucky you won't have to wear one."

Trey blew a lazy smoke ring. "Damn straight, little brother." He flicked his cigarette butt into the grass, shouldered his gym bag and sat back on the bike. "Okay. So . . . I guess I'll see you around, kid."

"Wait." Inside his pockets, Ryan's nails bit into his palms. "Trey--"

"Look. I didn't do it, all right, Ry? Not like they said."

Ryan looked up, startled. "What? No, I know. Trey, I didn't ask."

"Sure you didn't," Trey scoffed. He chewed the side of his lip, squinting at Ryan skeptically. "But you wanted to. Don't try to play me, little brother."

"It's just . . . I don't get it, Trey," Ryan admitted. "Why they said—well, you know."

Trey lit another cigarette and sucked down a few furious puffs before he answered. "Unwanted advances. Hell, unwanted, my ass," he growled. "Okay, Ry, this is what happened, all right? We were under the stands at the football field, and all I did was make out with the girl—well, yeah, it went farther than that, but Shayla was totally hot for it. Shit, she's the one who took off her shirt. And she was into the blowjob, I swear to you, Ry. She just went all offended virgin because that nosyass security guard caught us, and she was afraid of what her parents would say." He paused, staring at Ryan intently. "You believe me, right, bro?"

"Yeah," Ryan stammered. "I mean, you said that you swear . . ."

"I do." Trey's eyes flicked up to the front door and then back to Ryan. His gaze was candid and clear, and never wavered at all. "On mom."

Ryan caught his breath. Then he nodded quickly, just once. "Okay."

"Ryan?"

Both boys turned. Theresa was leaning over her porch balustrade, waving tentatively. "Mama wondered if you'd like to come over for dinner tonight. We're having fajitas." She blew out a small breath and added, her smile slightly pinched, "You're welcome to come too, Trey."

"Nah," Trey replied, "not tonight. It's a little too close to Casa Atwood, you know? Bet Ry would like to eat with you, though. Wouldn't you, little brother?" He nudged Ryan, nodding suggestively toward Theresa's breasts.

Theresa flushed and hiked up the neckline of her blouse. "Ryan?" she prompted.

He glanced uncertainly toward his house. "I'm not sure, Theresa. But maybe. Can I let you know in a few minutes?"

"Sure." Theresa paused at the doorway, as though she wanted to say something else, but then she disappeared into her house.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Ryan spun around to face his brother. "Why did you do that?" he demanded.

Trey widened his eyes innocently. "What?"

"Look at her like that. You embarrassed her, Trey."

"Embarrassed. Yeah, right." Trey mocked the word with a derisive laugh. He clapped a hand on Ryan's shoulder and leaned down to whisper, "Trust me, Ry. Girls want you to notice when they look good. And Theresa—shit, but she is growing up really fine. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, LB."

Ryan bit his lower lip. "Yeah," he admitted grudgingly, "but Trey, just don't . . ."

The hand on Ryan's shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. "Don't what?"

Ryan frowned, troubled. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. _Don't leer at Theresa. Don't fight with Mom. Don't treat me like a stupid kid. Don't move out. Don't disappear, Trey. Just don't._

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Okay then. Look, I gotta jet, Ry."

"Wait, Trey." Desperate to stall him, Ryan confided warily, "I . . . um . . . Theresa and I going to a party together Saturday night."

"Yeah? You and Theresa?" Trey bobbed his head, his lips pursed in approval. "Shit, my little brother's becoming a man. But hey, listen . . . if you're gonna start getting involved with girls, you gotta watch out, bro. They will seriously try to fuck with your mind. Don't let 'em." He cocked his head, and let his gaze drift down, drawling, "Now, if they wanna fuck other things . . ."

Ryan's face flamed. "Trey! Jeez!"

Laughing, Trey knuckled the top of Ryan's head and pushed off, pedaling slowly down the sidewalk.

Ryan jogged next to him. "Trey, listen, you're going to come back, right?" His breathing was ragged, as though he'd run a long way, but he was trying hard to sound casual. 'Cause Mom . . . I mean, you know how she is. And she's bound to break up with Marcus pretty soon . . . Look, will you let me know where you're staying at least? Just in case . . .?"

Trey hunched over his handlebars, picking up speed. "Later, Ry," he said vaguely. He shifted gears, popping a wheelie as he rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

Ryan stumbled to a stop and lowered his head, ashamed that he had been chasing his brother like some stupid puppy.

Furious that he hadn't found words to make his brother stay.

Behind him, he heard the door open and his mother call, "Ry? Come on in here. Baby, I mean it. Get in this house now."

"I need you, man," Ryan whispered.

Of course, Trey couldn't hear him.

He was already gone.

_The line "Every man got a treasure" comes from the story "The Treasure of Lemon Brown," by Walter Dean Myers._


	8. 8: Ryan's First Date part 1 of 2

8. Ryan's First Date 

The first time Ryan went on a date, he tried hard to pretend it was nothing special, but nobody believed him. He couldn't even convince himself.

Simply getting dressed reminded him how different this evening might be.

Normally, when he went to see Theresa, Ryan would simply wash his face and bolt out the front door, finger-combing his hair while he crossed the yard. Now, he stood in his stuffy bedroom, one palm pressed against the dresser, debating. Everything in the top drawer belonged to Trey, and Ryan could still hear his voice warning grimly, "You keep your fucking hands out of my stuff, LB, or I will so beat your ass. Bad enough I got to share a room with you."

But Trey was gone.

And whatever he had left behind . . . he didn't care about it anymore, did he?

So, Ryan thought, why exactly should he?

His fingers strummed the tarnished handle. He paused for a moment, chewing his lip, before he tugged abruptly, trying to wrench the drawer open. It stuck, half off the track, and he had to wiggle it several times before it slid free. Suddenly released, the whole drawer leaped at him like some angered animal fleeing its cage, and Ryan fell back, barely able to catch it before it fell out of the dresser entirely.

Even his brother's furniture wanted to escape this house.

Gingerly, Ryan steadied the drawer. Then he took a deep breath and reached inside. He wondered if it was wrong, going through Trey's discarded clothes, trying to find something to wear. Of course, even if it wasn't almost like stealing, it was still kind of a joke. Everything his brother owned was bound to be too big, and it wasn't as if Ryan was likely to find anything appropriate anyway. But he was desperate. His own wardrobe consisted of t-shirts for when it was hot and sweatshirts to wear on cool or rainy days.

That was pretty much it.

Supposedly his school had a dress code, but nobody really enforced it. Ryan owned one light-blue button-down shirt that had hung in his locker all year, emergency stock just in case some new teacher—there seemed to be a revolving door of new teachers—naïvely insisted on the rules for a day or two. The last time he had worn it the shoulder seams strained, reassuring Ryan that at least he was growing somewhere. But even if it fit perfectly, no way would he wear that tired school shirt to a party. Bad enough that he'd have to wear his cheap black dress code pants and shoes.

He pulled a crumpled grey sweater from Trey's drawer and shook it out, frowning dubiously. Ryan wasn't quite sure what was considered suitable dress for a Quinceanera, but he was pretty sure that a pullover—especially one with a rusty bloodstain near the fraying hem—didn't qualify. Sighing, he folded the sweater and put it back, patting it into place, when his hand touched something buried beneath.

Not cloth.

Plastic. Stuffed with something else.

There was only one thing it could be.

Peering over his shoulder to confirm that the door was closed, Ryan removed the baggie. He stared at it with incredulous eyes. Trey had left his stash? Trey would never leave this. Not unless . . . Ryan smiled, swinging the container between his fingers . . . not unless his brother planned to come home.

And if he did--when he did—he'd expect to find his weed exactly where he left it.

Ryan allowed himself one quick, furtive, sniff. Then he reached up, ready to tuck the baggie back into its hiding place when he heard a slam and the muffled thud of footsteps approaching. Immediately he plunged the container into his pocket, keeping his hand stuck inside as a precaution. His breath suddenly erratic, he dragged a chair over to wedge under the knob, but before he could get it in place, the door rattled open.

And Trey sauntered in.

"Hey, Ry," he said, like an audible shrug. As though he had just stepped outside for a quick cigarette, he flopped unceremoniously onto Ryan's bed, tossing a wrinkled shopping bag to one side,and flinging a forearm over his eyes.

"Trey?" Ryan stammered. Automatically he released the chair he was holding, letting it teeter before it rocked to a stop.

His brother's voice crawled through the thick folds of a yawn. "Shit, of course Trey. Did I fucking change into somebody else in four days? Or did you finally become the stupid Atwood brother?"

Ryan flushed. Something insidious stirred inside him, something that lodged in his throat so that he couldn't quite breathe. It didn't make sense. Before Trey had slouched into the room, the mere prospect of his return was enough to fill Ryan with heady anticipation. Now his brother was back, and Ryan couldn't muster a smile.

He couldn't even make himself say hello.

Maybe in those four days, Trey really had become somebody else. Or maybe Ryan had. Just the sight of his brother sprawled obliviously—greasy hair smearing the pillow, shoes and scabbed elbows flaking onto the sheets—filled Ryan with unexpected rage. The feeling startled and scared him.

Empowered him too.

Ryan's eyes narrowed. The defiled bed belonged to him. Trey's own was one short step away, spotless and empty, but he'd chosen to collapse on Ryan's instead, heedless of the filth that would remain after he left.

Because of course, he'd leave.

He'd go back . . . wherever. And it would be Ryan's job to clean up after him.

"What are you doing here, Trey?" Ryan demanded. Inside his pocket, his fingers tightened into a fist, nails imprinting themselves into his palm.

Trey rolled his arm down just enough to squint indifferently before he shielded his eyes again.

Resentment curdled the edges of Ryan's voice. "What are you doing?" he repeated. "You're on my bed, Trey. Get off."

"Well, hot damn, listen to little brother. I'm gone less than a week and he thinks he can fucking tell me what to do." Trey sounded bored. He addressed his comments to a water stain on the ceiling, then hitched himself up so he was leaning against the headboard, hands clasped casually behind his head. "For someone who acted like a shitass baby because he didn't want his big brother to leave, you don't seem very happy to have me back, Ry."

"You're not back," Ryan muttered. "You're just here. Right?" He hurled the last word as an accusation—a swipe of nails across Trey's unconcerned face—but despite his best efforts, an echo, thin and wistful, reminded both of them who Ryan was, who he wanted Trey to be.

Through the open window floated the drone of a tape abandoned somewhere, its song long over, filling the air with static.

Trey rolled over, rummaging aimlessly through the single drawer of the rickety nightstand. "Where the hell is the candy I left here, Ry?" he asked, although he didn't sound like he cared.

Ryan's derisive glare raked over his brother. "I ate it," he said defiantly. He chewed the inside of his cheek and added with caustic emphasis, "Want me to pay you for it?"

"Shit, no" Trey snorted. "Who gives a fuck about a couple of stale candy bars? Why are you such a prick today anyway, Ry?" His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "Mom gone off the edge? Or is it that asshole Marcus? Did she let him put his hands on you? Swear to God, if he has--"

"He hasn't, all right?" Ryan snapped.

"No? Then what's with the cut over your eye?"

Involuntarily, Ryan touched the curtain of bangs that he thought covered his three-day-old bruise. "It's nothing," he mumbled. "And I can take care of myself anyway. I'm not a baby."

Trey scratched his eyebrow, watching as Ryan moved to the dresser, back rigid. With one hand he straightened a pile of school books, lining up the edges, while the other, still stuffed tight in his pocket, pulsed convulsively. "Hell, Ry." An unfamiliar note threaded through Trey's voice, like a grudging apology. "I never said you were a baby."

Ryan shot a look of blue scorn over his shoulder. "Never?"

"Well, not today anyway," Trey amended. Abruptly, he launched himself off the bed. He landed on Ryan's shoulders with one arm looped around his neck, half-hugging, half-choking. "Little brother's a man now, right? Got himself a hot date."

"What?" Ryan protested, writhing under his brother's weight. "No, I don't." Pivoting, he jabbed his elbow upward and wrestled out of Trey's grasp, shoving him hard against the dresser. He planted his feet, panting slightly, ready for the inevitable countrattack.

It didn't come.

"Nice move, LB," Trey drawled admiringly. He massaged his jaw. "Forgot I taught you that."

"You didn't," Ryan gritted.

Trey screwed up his mouth, concentrating. "No? Well then, shit, maybe you can teach me." He grinned, relaxing against the bed, arms draped wide to each side. Without turning, he groped for the bag he'd tossed down when he came in. "Brought you something," he announced, flipping the package to Ryan who caught it instinctively.

"What is it?"

"Fuck, it's a dinosaur, whaddya think? Open the damn bag, little brother."

Ryan bit his bottom lip, hooded eyes still focused on Trey, and dug inside the bag. Warily, he drew out a shirt, its sleeves spilling over his hand like a waterfall. Ryan blinked at the silky fabric and then at Trey. A dozen questions crowded his mouth, but he swallowed them all.

"Had to guess your size, although, shit, it's not like you've grown in the past year or anything. You might have to roll up the sleeves, but hey, it's a look, right?" Trey smirked and reached over to cuff Ryan playfully on the cheek. "Gonna be stylin' at the party tonight, little brother. But hell, don't fucking thank me or anything."

"Thanks, Trey," Ryan murmured obediently. He stood for a moment, watching the cloth's changeable color play in the light, dusky blue and then black and then a quick wink of silver. "Thanks," he said again, and his smile wavered between guilt and gratitude. "It's great."

Trey shrugged. "Should be. Best money can't buy, bro." He lifted his chin, eyes challenging, but Ryan just nodded.

Of course it was stolen. No way Trey could afford to buy a shirt like that. But still. He got it for Ryan. Trey had thought about him.

And it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?

"I wasn't sure you'd even remember . . . about the party, I mean," Ryan admitted. He smoothed the shirt on top of the dresser, palms pressing its creases flat, and added awkwardly, "Sorry. For, you know, being an ass when you came in."

"Yeah?" Trey swatted Ryan's thigh. "You've been an ass about three million other times too. Gonna apologize for them?"

"Lemme see." Ryan cocked his head, considering. "No," he decided, completely deadpan.

Trey laughed, aimed an imaginary gun and pulled the trigger. "Smartass little bitch. That's three million and one." He shifted over, making room on the floor next to him. Ryan hesitated just for a moment and then dropped down, his knee bumping his brother's companionably.

"So Ry, Turo says Theresa is real excited about your date," Trey reported. "The Atwood rep's riding on you now. Don't fuck it up—you know, when you do fuck."

Ryan hunched one shoulder self-consciously. "Come on, Trey, I told you, it's not like that with us. This . . . it's not even really a date. You know, Theresa and me, we just . . . do stuff together."

"Yeah," Trey agreed, leering. "So now you'll do different stuff." He elbowed Ryan's ribs and plunged a finger into his loosely curled fist.

"Trey! Jeez, I'm not gonna . . ." Ryan protested automatically but he couldn't summon any true indignation. Trey's taunts were too familiar, and he'd missed them too much. A grudging smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" Trey widened his eyes innocently. "Worried you won't be man enough for your girl, LB?"

"I am not," Ryan growled.

Trey stretched out his legs, glancing at Ryan appraisingly. "Not what?" he mocked. "Not worried? Or not man enough?"

Ryan darted back a glare of mock-fury, but it dissolved at the sound of tires crunching the gravel driveway. "Shit," he breathed, scrambling up to peer out the window. "Mom is home, Trey. Are you . . .?"

Trey was on his feet before Ryan could finish the question. "Gotta jet, little brother. Listen, I'll catch you at the party, okay?"

He sidled to the open window and swung one leg over the sill, but Ryan caught the hem of his t-shirt, stopping him.

"Trey, wait. I've got . . . something of yours." He took a deep breath and pulled the baggie from his pocket, bracing himself as he held it out.

Trey's face hardened. "Fuck," he scowled. "I sure as hell didn't hide that in your jeans, LB."

"I found it by accident. When I was looking for something to wear," Ryan explained, trying not to sound guilty. "Then when I heard you coming . . . I thought it might be Mom. Or, you know, Marcus. I just stuck it in my pocket so they wouldn't see. I didn't use any, I swear."

Trey snatched the baggie, eyes scrutinizing his brother's face. Then he sighed. "Later," he muttered and climbed out the window.

Later.

Ryan wasn't sure what that word was supposed to mean. A promise? A threat?

Another goodbye?

Sighing, he straightened his disheveled bed, removing all traces of Trey, as Dawn called unsteadily from the living room, "Ry? Hey, babe? You in there?" Her knock was just the accidental scrape of her rings as she grabbed the doorknob and let herself in, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

"Mom!" Ryan protested. "Don't do that, okay?"

"Don't do what?" Dawn demanded, face creased in confusion.

"Just . . . come in like that. It's my room, Mom."

Dawn jabbed a finger out in warning. "Yeah? Well, it's my goddamn house, Ryan. You watch . . . watch it, kiddo." She slumped against the doorframe, fumbling vainly with her lighter. "Shit," she breathed, holding it out. "Baby, would you . . .?"

Wordlessly, Ryan took the lighter and clicked it on, moving just close enough for his mother to dip her cigarette toward the flame. She inhaled, tipping her head back, while her shaky hand untangled his bangs.

"Huh," she said, squinting at the bruise over his eyes. "Well, that don't look so bad." Ryan squirmed under her touch and she added defensively, "Marcus said he was sorry. It was a goddamn accident, Ry."

He nodded a weary surrender. "Yeah, Mom, I know . . . Look, did you want something? 'Cause I gotta get ready."

Dawn shrugged. "Just wanted to see you, baby," she claimed. "You know, I get lonely sometimes, with you always hidin' in here."

"I'm sorry," Ryan said automatically. "But you have Marcus, right?"

"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe," Dawn demurred. "He's a little . . . mad at me right now." She resumed fussing with Ryan's hair, and then stopped, blinking at him. "Ready?" she asked belatedly. "Get ready for what, kiddo?"

Eyes fixed on the cracked linoleum, his expression impassive, Ryan recited, "The party. With Theresa. I told you, Mom."

"Oh yeah," Dawn murmured vaguely. She sucked in a lungful of smoke and rubbed the back of her neck, frowning. "That Theresa though. I don't know, Ry. I think she's trouble."

Ryan's head snapped up in disbelief. "Trouble?" he objected. "Mom, that's just . . ." He caught himself and finished softly, "Theresa's my friend, that's all."

"Sure, that's what she says. Just . . . be careful. Oh shit, Ry." Dawn stumbled toward him, and Ryan instinctively started to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. Canting his head up, she dropped a sloppy kiss that seeped down the side of his face. "I'm countin' on you, okay? Hell, after your dad and your brother . . ." Her fingers locked on Ryan's chin and she rested her forehead against his. "This is it, you know?" she demanded fiercely. "I am never gonna have any more than I got right now. Come on, baby, please. I gotta have one thing good in my life. Just one thing . . ."

Her breath was sweet and sour, and Ryan's flesh flamed as if it were branding him. "Mom," he whispered.

Dawn's arms dropped suddenly, limply. "Just one. Goddamn. Good thing," she repeated. "I deserve that, don't I?" She licked her fingers and scrubbed the lipstick stain she'd left like another bruise on Ryan's cheek. Her mouth twisted into a distorted smile. "You won't let me down, will you, baby?"

Ryan's gaze fled to the open window, and then back to his mother's expectant face. Her eyes, wistful and unnaturally bright, dragged the words out of him.

"No, Mom," he promised, and hoped that would be enough.

He didn't know what else he could possibly say.

TBC


	9. 8: Ryan's First Date part 2

**Ryan's First Date, Part 2**

Before Ryan even reached the porch steps, Theresa flung open her front door and skipped outside. "You're here!" she cried. Then, suddenly self-conscious, she clapped a hand over her mouth and shrank back, blushing.

At the sight of her, Ryan released the breath he had been holding. He forgot Trey and Dawn, the chaos of feelings they churned up inside him, forgot the dangerously shifting shape of his family, forgot even his own doubts about dating a friend. Backlit by the glow of her living room, Theresa appeared eager and shy, but she wasn't quite smiling.

Ryan wanted to make her smile.

He ducked his head, lifted it sideways in greeting. "Hey," he said, almost gently. "You look . . . really good."

"You think so?" Instantly, Theresa's face sparkled, and she spun in place. Glossy black curls spiraled on her bare shoulders, and the short skirt of her dress, a series of sea green ruffles edged in white lace, foamed around her thighs.

Watching her, Ryan felt strange—dizzy and self-assured at the same time. "Oh yeah," he confirmed. "You're really pretty, Theresa."

"You too," she replied, and then laughed at her own words. "I mean, you look good too, Ryan. I like your shirt." She touched one tentative finger to his top button and started to say something else when Turo appeared behind her in the doorway, swinging his car keys.

"You guys ready?"

Ryan nodded. Confidently, even though he'd never done it before, even though he realized what it would signal, he took Theresa's hand. She exhaled a tiny bubble of sound, between a gasp and a giggle, and laced her fingers through his.

Turo strode in front of them, talking over his shoulder. "You can ride in front with me, Theresa."

"I know I can. But I won't," Theresa retorted impudently. "Ryan and I are gonna sit in back together. You can be our, whaddya call it, our chauffeur tonight."

Turo wheeled around, caught sight of their clasped hands, and scowled as he unlocked the car. "Don't even think of trying something back there, Atwood," he warned.

"Ooh, my big brother," Theresa teased. Behind Turo's back, she rolled her eyes and edged closer to Ryan. "He's so tough and scary. Are you scared, Ryan?"

Her mouth almost touched his ear, and he could feel her breath, smell the faint vanilla and spice of her skin. "Oh yeah," he murmured, his voice husky, the words verging on truth. He slid into the backseat beside Theresa, their hands still linked in the small space between them. "Yeah, I'm really scared."

Throughout the drive, Turo kept up a steady lecture: don't get in trouble, don't embarrass him in front of his friends and his girlfriend's family, don't forget Theresa's curfew, don't keep him waiting when it was time for him to drive them back home. At every stoplight, he swiveled around to check that Theresa and Ryan were listening. They always nodded, expressions sober, but as soon as Turo turned back to the road, their eyes and smiles met, exchanging secret laughter.

"Have you ever been to a Quinceanera, Ryan?" Theresa asked.

He shook his head, fascinated by the way her earrings winked at him every time she moved. "Have you?"

"Three," she replied, her face shining with memory. "All cousins. For them, we went to Mass too—there's always a Mass in the girl's honor—but this is just the party. Oh, Ryan, wait till you see. Camille will be dressed like a bride or a princess, and there will be so much food and music and . . ." Theresa broke off, inhaling sharply. "Ryan, look!" She grasped his hand tighter, and pointed out the window.

They were still two blocks away, but Camille's house was already visible, lit by Japanese lanterns looped along the porch and luminaria that lined the sidewalk. Pink and white flower garlands circled every tree trunk, and pink and white balloons bobbed above the fence posts.

"It's so beautiful," Theresa breathed, dazzled. When she leaned over Ryan's lap for a better look, her hair fell forward, brushing his cheek. "It's just like a picture in a fairytale." She blushed, embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, but as soon as the car stopped she fumbled for the door handle.

Ryan cleared his throat. "Wait," he urged, putting a hand on her wrist.

Confused, Theresa frowned slightly, but she stayed where she was, watching as he got out. Ryan crossed behind the car, opened her door, and, smiling shyly, extended his hand.

Theresa's eyes widened with delight. She inclined her head, delicately placed her palm in his and stepped out of the car. "Gracias, Ryan," she said. Behind her Turo laughed, and she turned to scowl at him, lifting her chin. "Some people have manners, mi hermano," she admonished sternly before reassuring Ryan, "Just ignore him. He is so ignorant."

Trey's voice drifted out the darkness across the street. "Hey, smooth move there, Ry," he called as he crossed to meet them, trailed by a girl teetering on heels that threatened to pitch her to the ground. "Been watching fucking PBS or something again? You know, this is still Chino, not faggy London, England." He lisped the last words in a simpering falsetto.

Ryan flinched as though he had been slapped. Abruptly, he felt both childish and pretentious. Just once, alone in the house, he had flipped idly through different channels, and stopped on one quieter than all the rest. When Trey came home, he caught Ryan immersed in a show set on a British estate, where people spoke in clipped, cultured voices, sipped their drinks, and somehow internalized all of their pain.

Trey immediately added that moment to his arsenal. He had so many weapons, Ryan realized, and he aimed his blows with such lethal accuracy, leaving his opponents gasping for breath.

No wonder Trey won almost all of his fights.

Silently, Ryan started to pull his hand out of Theresa's, but she wouldn't let go. "No," she whispered. "It's just Trey being stupid. Don't let him spoil everything, Ryan. Please?"

Ryan wavered, but before he could decide what to do, Turo took charge. "Can it, Trey," he ordered flatly. "This is my girlfriend's Quinceanera. You fuck it up for her, I guarantee I will kick your sorry ass."

"Chill, Turo," Trey laughed. "I was just messin' with little bro, here. We're cool, aren't we, Ry?" He grinned, raising his eyebrows, and lifted his hands in a placating wave.

The gesture drew Ryan's eyes to the shirt Trey was wearing. It was clearly cheap, wrinkled and tired. Not like Ryan's own, the new one that kept him from looking like a lost sixth-grader, the one Trey, unasked, had provided for him. Ryan wondered, briefly, why Trey hadn't bothered to steal a shirt for himself. He swallowed, finally finding his voice. "Sure, Trey. We're cool," he conceded diffidently.

"Now see," Trey announced. "Me and Ry, we're blood. We understand each other." He snapped his fingers, and his date scurried to his side. Trey slung an arm around her shoulders, letting his hand dangle close to her breast. "Okay, let's get to this damn party and have us some fun."

Only the party really wasn't much fun, Ryan thought. He and Theresa didn't seem to fit in anywhere. Inside the house, Camille's extended family was celebrating in loud bursts of laughter and Spanish. Little kids crawled under the tables, or rested on the swell of their mothers' hips, while older children roughhoused, heedless of their party own clothes or people in their way.

Theresa wrinkled her nose distastefully when a boy careened off her as she and Ryan picked their way through the dining room. "Kids," she scoffed, sounding as though she'd just turned twenty-five. "Let's go outside, Ryan."

But outside was no better. The backyard was teeming with Camille's friends, all of them older, most of them dancing or drinking, none of them interested in talking to anyone still in middle school. For a few minutes, Ryan and Theresa lingered on the fringes, watching Camille sway through the crowd in her enormous hoop skirt, with Turo trailing possessively behind her. In the distance, Ryan spotted Trey and his date disappearing behind a thick cluster of bushes. Maybe, he thought ruefully, that was how his brother's shirt got so creased, why Trey didn't bother to wear something good.

Theresa swished her skirt, humming, but the glad excitement drained slowly from her eyes as she and Ryan stood on the sidelines. Another song began, and she glanced over at him, her expression wistful.

"Do you . . .?" Ryan stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to finish. "You wanna dance, Theresa?"

"Really? You'll dance with me, Ryan?" she asked, twirling around in surprise.

Ryan shrugged. "If you want." He raised his arms, dropped them, and raised them again, peering furtively at other couples to check where his hands were supposed to go.

Theresa hesitated and then shook her head. "No, Ryan. Let's not," she said. "I mean, thank you for offering, but I want to do something you want to do too." She sighed, and whispered apologetically, "I'm sorry. I thought this would be more fun."

A light breeze lifted her curls. One of them caught on her left earring, and Ryan reached over to free it, his finger skimming the edge of Theresa's cheek. "We could go for a walk," he suggested, his voice cracking just a little.

Theresa ducked her head and blushed again. "A walk will be nice. I'd like that."

They started out of the yard, their hands brushing as they moved. Ryan paused when Trey and his date stumbled out of the bushes, leaning against each other heavily for support.

"Hey, Ry. What up, dog?" Trey grinned. "You and Teesha . . . Theresa . . . having a good time?"

Ryan's eyes narrowed speculatively. "We're going for a walk," he replied. "Would you let Turo know? We won't be gone long."

Trey nodded, ticking the points off on his fingers. "Walk. Turo. Long. Got it," he promised.

"Not long," Ryan corrected. "Are you okay, Trey?"

"Good question," Trey laughed. "Hey, Jannette, how the hell am I?"

Trey's girlfriend nuzzled her face into his neck. "Oh, you're real good, babe," she purred, and licked the edge of his ear.

"Yeah, see, that's what I thought." Trey nudged Ryan's side hard, almost knocking him over. "Fucking Atwood rep, I'm tellin' you, Ry . . . Hey, you know, there's a park about five blocks from here. I mean, since you're goin' for a . . . what did you call it? A walk? Oh . . . and here." He thrust his own glass at Ryan, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the top. "Drink up, little brother," he challenged. "On me, one for the fucking road."

Ryan heard Jannette giggle and Theresa make a small, scornful sound. "Shit, Trey," he muttered uneasily. He held the glass for a moment, then drained it in one swallow. The taste was sharper than he had expected, and it scalded his throat. Somehow he managed not to choke, but his voice was ragged when he spoke again. "Just tell Turo where we went, okay?"

Trey saluted. "Got it, LB."

Ryan tossed the glass back and deliberately turned away, taking Theresa's hand. They walked half a block in silence before she burst out, "Your brother is such an ass, Ryan."

"Not always," he claimed, fingering the hem of his shirt.

"Pretty much always," Theresa argued. "He likes messing with you, Ryan. You shouldn't let him get to you like that."

"It's just . . ." Ryan couldn't find words to explain and the prospect of trying made him ache with exhaustion. "He's my brother," he finished helplessly.

Theresa pursed her lips and sighed, examining Ryan's face in the watery lamplight. "I know," she conceded. "But as far as I'm concerned, tonight he is nobody."

Ryan's mouth curved into a quick, grateful grin. "Okay," he agreed, nodding. "Trey is nobody."

"Trey?" Theresa's eyes widened innocently. "Trey who?"

Smiling at each other, Ryan and Theresa walked in companionable silence until they reached the entrance to the park. It loomed in front of them unexpectedly, a destination they never chose. In the moonlight, the place appeared to be deserted, like a private refuge, its emptiness inviting and forbidding at the same time. Ryan and Theresa became uncomfortably conscious of their clasped hands, the warm, throbbing contact points between their fingers. They had to let go.

Ryan inhaled sharply and blew the air out through his teeth. "We could just . . . go back to the party, I guess," he suggested.

"Uh-huh," Theresa murmured uncertainly. She glanced at the playground area with its familiar equipment, thought for a minute, and then darted a mischievous grin in Ryan's direction. "Or . . . we could go on the swings."

Ryan peered at her dubiously. "You're all dressed up, Theresa."

"So? Clothes can be washed," she caroled, skipping down the path. "Come on, Ryan. It will be fun. Better than dancing, right?"

Behind Theresa's back, Ryan grimaced a little. The swings were for little kids, unless you used them to fly, launch yourself into space and a dizzy freefall. Ryan needed some outlet for his restless energy, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that. "Want me to push you, Theresa?" he asked.

"No, silly." She caught his elbow, pulling him along with her, and Ryan dragged his feet a little just to make her tug harder. "I want you to ride next to me."

"We're too old for this," he protested, even as he wedged himself into the curved plastic seat.

Theresa scooted back, body arced and poised for take-off. "Not me. But you are maybe," she teased. "You're too old for everything sometimes, Ryan Atwood. Tell you what--just pretend you're Trey's mental age. Oops—I forgot! He doesn't exist!"

She swooped past Ryan, laughing, and he pushed back, using his arms to pump and catch up. Their rhythm didn't match; Theresa's swing climbed as his was descending, and they only passed each other at the bottom. There was no way to talk. Words tumbled in the air between them, and they could only catch half of what each other was saying, so they gave up after a few scrambled words.

That was all right with Ryan. He enjoyed the random sounds that rushed past as he swung—car horns, dogs barking in the distance, and snatches of whatever song Theresa had begun to sing.

Ryan watched her fly, higher and higher, and he knew what she was going to do. What she always did—soar until she hit the highest point, and then throw herself forward, slicing through the air and down to the ground while her swing, abruptly empty, whipped itself back and forth in an abandoned frenzy.

"Theresa," Ryan said. On an impulse he couldn't explain, he stretched an arm to her swing and caught the chain nearest him, breaking her momentum. Theresa's mouth opened indignantly. Then she stuck her tongue out, her eyes flashing, and touched her toes to the ground. Leaping lightly off the swing, she began dancing backwards, beckoning to Ryan while she laughed, her tongue still visible, pink between her teeth.

"You do it, Ryan," Theresa called. "Come on! I dare you, Ryan. I dare you! Ry-an." She swiveled her hips invitingly, and all the little ruffles lifted and shimmered like waves in the moonlight.

Once, twice, three more times, Ryan's swing arced while he debated and Theresa made a song out of his name. Then, not quite at the peak, but almost, he closed his eyes and threw himself forward into the air. He landed breathless in a crouch, started to get up, then collapsed face down on the grass.

Theresa's teasing litany broke off in a gasp. "Ryan?" she cried. "Ryan!" She skidded to her knees beside him, her voice shaking, her fingers barely touching his hair. "Are you all right? Oh Dios, Ryan, please be all right." She made the Sign of the Cross, murmured a quick prayer. Ryan groaned. "Say something!" Theresa begged.

Ryan turned his head slowly and fluttered one eye open, swallowing, while Theresa waited anxiously, clutching his hand.

"Got you," he laughed.

"Oh!" Theresa fell back on her heels. "You're not hurt?"

"Nope," Ryan grinned. He sat up, brushing off his shirt and pants.

Theresa's eyes narrowed to slits and she blew out a long, indignant breath. "You will be, Ryan Atwood," she warned. "Scaring me like that. That is not funny."

She swatted his thigh and lifted her hand to do it again, but Ryan caught her wrist. Instantly, Theresa stopped moving. For a few moments Ryan simply looked at her, his eyes slowly losing their laughter, growing dark and intense. He loosened his hold, giving Theresa a chance to move away. When she didn't, when she bit her lip and swayed toward him, Ryan cupped the back of her head. His fingers slid under her hair, guiding her mouth to his.

It wasn't the way he kissed Mica at all.

With Theresa, the touch of his lips was gentle, a kind of question. He pulled back, waiting for her answer and Theresa gave a tiny nod, winding her arms around his neck. Ryan kissed her again, more confidently. Her lips parted under his, and his tongue slid slightly inside her mouth, running over her teeth once before he drew back. He bowed his head, resting his forehead softly against hers.

Theresa's breath tickled Ryan's chin as she made a small sound, almost like the mew of a kitten. "I like that," she whispered.

"Yeah? Good." Ryan leaned back, eyes shadowed by his bangs. "We can do it again," he offered, and then added, because this was Theresa, and so much was at stake, "But we don't have to right now. We could . . . do something else."

"What?" Theresa asked, a little breathlessly.

Ryan scanned the park, desperate for an idea that would prove nothing essential had changed. "I don't know," he confessed ruefully. He stretched out flat on the ground, crossing his hands behind his head. "Look at the stars for a while maybe? Find the constellations?"

Obediently, Theresa lifted her face. "What stars?" she demanded, frowning at the blank sky.

"Yeah, I guess there aren't any tonight. I don't know," Ryan repeated. "What do you want to do?"

Theresa thought for a moment, drawing aimless patterns in the grass and then smiled triumphantly. She grabbed Ryan's hand, holding it in her lap, and began to trace shapes on his palm with a single finger.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asked, pulling away in confusion.

"Being Annie Sullivan."

"Who?"

"Annie Sullivan. In **_The Miracle Worker_**. We're reading the play in English class, Ryan." Theresa shook her head at the sight of his blank expression. "Don't you ever pay attention?"

Ryan shrugged. "Sometimes," he answered resentfully. He remembered the teacher's enthusiastic introduction, how she claimed that the play was a true story, heartwarming and inspirational, but he hadn't listened or read a word after that. **_The Miracle Worker. _**That title alone made him retreat, aching and angry inside, because if Ryan knew one thing absolutely, it was that nobody could work miracles. Not in real life.

Theresa pulled him up to a sitting position. "Hand," she demanded imperiously. Ryan blinked, still puzzled. "Give me your hand," she clarified. "I'm going to show you how Annie Sullivan taught Helen Keller to communicate."

"Now?" Ryan asked. Theresa wore her do-what-I-say look and Ryan suddenly found it endearing, amusing and hard to resist. He wanted to kiss her again.

"Yes, now," Theresa insisted. "You'll like it, Ryan, I promise." Just as he had done when helping her out of the car, Theresa extended her hand, waiting until Ryan placed his own on top. Then she turned it over so his palm faced up. "Annie spelled words into Helen's hand, one letter at a time," Theresa said, demonstrating. "Just like this. Close your eyes, Ryan."

Her finger traced precise lines lightly on Ryan's skin. It tickled, and then it didn't.

"What word was that?" she asked.

Ryan's eyes fluttered open and he looked up from under his lashes. All he understood was the sensation, and he really, really, wanted Theresa to do it again. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Concentrate," Theresa ordered, and just for a moment, Ryan could imagine her some day in the future, supervising homework at a kitchen table the way he had seen mothers do on TV shows. He wondered, with a pang of lonely foreboding, if he would still know Theresa then. "Earth to Ryan," she scolded, noticing his distraction.

"Sorry," he murmured. "What?"

"Close your eyes again, and pay attention."

Slowly, deliberately, she began printing into Ryan's hand. He sat very still, forcing himself to focus.

"Water?" he asked, when she finished. "Why water, Theresa?"

"It's from the play," she reminded him. "Remember? What Annie spells to Helen in the end?"

Ryan bit his lip, because he didn't remember, but now he thought he might want to know. "Do another one," he urged. "A Theresa word."

She blew on his palm first. "I'm erasing," she explained pertly in answer to his quizzical smile. "All right. You ready?"

Ryan nodded, closed his eyes. He felt an "a", then an "l", and a "w", and another "a." The word formed in his mind, but he let Theresa finish before he said it out loud.

"Always?"

"Mm-hmm," she murmured. "But I'm not done. Just wait." She traced one more line, and then Ryan felt her grip tighten convulsively. "Oh shit," she whispered.

His eyes flew open. Theresa was staring over his shoulder, scrambling to her feet, pulling Ryan with her.

Alarmed, Ryan turned to look behind him. "What's wrong?" he asked, and then breathed, "Oh fuck," when he saw the answer.

Three boys, all of them twice his size and wearing gang colors, were strolling toward them, and even from a distance, Ryan could see their eyes locked on Theresa. He scanned the park for somebody else, anyone who might help, but the place still appeared abandoned.

"Come on," Ryan muttered. He grabbed Theresa's elbow, steering her toward the street and the lit windows of a convenience store, careful to keep her body shielded by his.

Somebody whistled, and a sneering voice called, "Yo, Chica! What's your hurry, babydoll? Stay—play with us." There was a snort of laughter. "Hey, if you want, your little friend can stay too. Why not? I bet we can think up some games for him."

Ryan heard a wet sucking noise behind him and he could guess the gesture that accompanied it. Two spots of color burned high on his cheeks and his muscles clenched. Despite himself, he started to turn.

Theresa pressed closer against his side. "Ryan," she whispered urgently. "Don't."

She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing tight enough to make Ryan wince. He nodded tersely, worked to control his hectic breathing, to ignore the catcalls and taunts that grew louder and nearer with every step. All one part of him wanted was to get Theresa safely across the street, into the store.

But the other part of him wanted to fight.

If only he were bigger.

Or stronger.

Or older.

Or Trey.

If he were Trey, Ryan thought with complete certainty, he could take all three of them.

"Hey, now you're not bein' nice, leavin' when I'm tryin' to make friends," the voice behind them complained.

Close. It was definitely getting too close.

"You're hurtin' my feelings. And I'm a sensitive guy—ain't I a sensitive guy, 'Los? Why you wanna hurt my feelings, huh, bitch?"

A hand swiped the air just behind Theresa. Instantly, Ryan swung around, blocking her from sight. "Don't you touch her," he snarled. "And don't call her that."

"Ryan . . ." Theresa locked her fingers through his belt loops. She stumbled backwards, trying to tug him with her, but except for his fists flexing by his sides, Ryan didn't move.

"Ooh, listen to the little boy, defendin' his lady. That's real sweet. Except, how you know you ain't the bitch I'm talkin' to, huh, little boy?"

Dimly, Ryan heard the sound of a car pulling over to the curb, and a door opening. "Just. Back. Off," he gritted deliberately.

"Seems like I shoulda heard an 'or else' in there. You got an 'or else' for me, hijo de puta?"

"I got one for you, fucker," Trey's voice announced. "Hell, I got as many as you want." Ryan darted a startled glance to the side, holding his ground. His brother was sliding out of a battered convertible, looking indolent, almost bored, as he flicked a half-smoked cigarette to the ground.

The guy in front cracked his knuckles. "This ain't your business, Atwood," he warned.

"No?" Trey laughed and picked up a fallen tree branch, slicing it casually through the air. "You are one ignorant shit. Well, three ignorant shits, I guess. But hell, who's counting, right?" Abruptly, he stabbed the branch into the chest of the nearest boy. "My brother and his girlfriend are gonna leave with us now. You got any problem with them doin' that, Rico?"

Rico's eyes raked Ryan, who lifted his chin and glared back defiantly.

"This kid's your brother, Atwood? How I'm supposed to know that? What the fuck is he doin' on this side of town?"

"I don't know," Trey drawled, feigning ignorance. He inclined his head toward Ryan. "What the fuck are you doin' on this side of town, Ry?"

"Whatever the hell I feel like doing," Ryan replied coolly. Behind him, he could feel Theresa press her palm against his back, but he couldn't tell whether the touch meant approval or admonition.

Trey nodded at Ryan, lips pulled down in an overturned smirk, and withdrew the tree branch a scant inch. "Got any more fucking questions, Rico? 'Cause I'm sure Ry and me can answer them. Can't we, bro?"

"Oh yeah," Ryan said deliberately. His voice vibrated with some dark undercurrent, almost as if he would welcome the challenge.

Rico's gaze measured Ryan, moved back to Trey. "Fuck this," he sneered finally, shaking his head. He signaled his companions and muttered something in Spanish. Without another word they all pivoted, sauntering off in the other direction as if they had just remembered something better that they had to do.

Trey gave a whoop of triumph and chucked the tree branch back to the ground. "'Where the fuck did that come from--Whatever the hell I feel like doin'?" he caroled, cuffing Ryan's cheek affectionately. "Shit, LB, guess you must be an Atwood after all." 

Ryan's face burned. "Of course I'm an Atwood," he mumbled. "Who else would I be?" All his bravado drained away, and he felt out of focus, empty and strangely ashamed. He shifted, trying to regain his balance. Theresa slid next to him, her fingers brushing his, and he took her hand gratefully. "Are you okay?" he asked. He sketched a tentative smile that did not quite reach his eyes, searching her face for something, some reassurance, or maybe just recognition.

"I'm fine," Theresa answered. She threw back her head, her chin lifting fiercely, daring Ryan to doubt her.

Relieved, Ryan nodded and turned back to his brother. "Thanks, Trey," he said diffidently. For, you know, having my back."

"Yeah, well." Trey stretched, then rolled his shoulders in a casual shrug. "Gotta do for a brother, right, Ry?" He flicked a finger under Ryan's collar and added with a sly grin, "Besides, didn't want you to mess up that shirt . . . Okay, let's get going. Unless, I don't know, you and your girlfriend got some unfinished business here?"

"Trey--" Ryan began, but Theresa interrupted.

"Actually, we do," she declared and wrapped her arms around Ryan's neck. Before he could move or ask questions or react at all really, she kissed him. Ryan's lips parted in surprise, opened wider when Theresa's tongue darted in and shyly touched his. Unsure quite what to do next, she slid her mouth down to his ear. "You said we could do it again," she whispered playfully. "I thought now would be good."

Ryan laughed, and for at least that one moment, the world fixed itself with perfect clarity.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Now is good."


	10. 9: Ryan's First Ride in a Police Car

Ryan's First Ride in a Police Car 

The first time he rode in a police car, Ryan wasn't under arrest. He wasn't even in trouble, at least not legally. In fact, the cops were trying to help him.

It just didn't feel that way.

But then, nothing had felt the way he believed it should for a long time.

The alarm rang at 6:25. Before its first insistent note ended, Ryan grabbed the clock. He smothered its sound under his pillow while his thumb fumbled for the off button. Panting and confused, he lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, willing away the shrill echoes.

Already, the day had gone wrong.

Ryan always woke up before the alarm. Somehow, his body could sense the instant the last gear began to click into place. At that precise moment, instinctively, he would start to rouse. His eyes still closed, Ryan would reach for the clock, preempting its clamor, preserving a pure quiet that promised everything. Slowly, languidly, he'd ease himself out of slumber, then out of bed, and into the hushed, hopeful morning.

He couldn't quite bring himself to call it dawn.

It was such a minor miracle. Still, Ryan savored it, that almost mystical confluence between his body's own rhythm and that of the world. He would never admit it out loud, not even to Theresa, but sometimes he felt like he had a small super power—not a heroic one like super-strength, or a profound one, like telepathy. Nothing major. Nothing that would enable him to save—well, anything really, except a few fragile seconds of peace.

But those moments mattered.

Ryan didn't know why his power had failed him this time.

At least he had stifled the alarm before it woke his brother. Trey hated getting up. He thrashed his way furiously into consciousness, fighting his covers, the light, the prospect of another day. All summer he lingered in bed long after Ryan, and all fall he resisted every attempt to wake him. Then, when the new semester began, he announced casually, "I don't got to get up early anymore, Mom. First period I got study hall. Nobody gives a shit if you don't show. It's not like it's a class or anything."

"Huh," Dawn muttered. She was painting her nails, a sliver of pink tongue protruding as she squinted in concentration. "Yeah, whatever, Trey. . . Shit, this cheap polish streaks like crazy." Peering at her cuticles critically, she missed Trey's silent sneer. "I guess Ry can get you up before he leaves for school. You can do that, right, baby?"

Trey threw an arm around Ryan's shoulders, fingers digging an order into his skin. "Sure, he can do that. Can't you, baby?"

Ryan said nothing. He just ducked under his brother's arm and retreated into the bedroom. Trey followed, sidling inside before Ryan could close the door, and flung himself onto his unmade bed.

"So what class do you really have, Trey?"

Head propped on his elbow, Trey blinked innocently. "You are getting so fucking suspicious, LB. What, you think that I lied to Mom?"

"No," Ryan said. He gazed out the window, then glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "I know you did."

For just a moment, Trey's eyes glinted before he burst into laughter. "Fuck, you are learning, little brother. About time too. Yeah, I got social studies with No-Tits Testa first period. But shit, it's not like I got to study how to be social, right? I have got that subject down." He growled the last word, pumping his hips and grinning lewdly. "Or, you know, up."

Ryan shrugged. There was no point in responding.

Eventually, he knew, Dawn would discover Trey's latest deception. Something would slip past his surveillance—some phone call, or letter, or surprise visit from the attendance officer. Dawn would receive the news stoically, all folded lips and wounded eyes. Then she would confront Trey. While Ryan watched, allegiance stretched taut between them, they would rage at each other, hurling vicious recriminations. Finally, one of them would storm out, slamming a door, and its impact would shake the unsteady structure of the Atwood family.

It had all happened before. It would happen again.

In the meantime, though, the first moments of each day belonged to Ryan alone.

His eyes fluttering open, surrendering the last raveled shreds of sleep, Ryan stumbled toward the bathroom. He yawned, taking one blind step inside, his hand already tugging the waistband of his pants, when Dawn's voice cracked the silence.

"Hey, hold it, baby. I'll be out in a minute, okay?"

Instantly awake, Ryan jerked back. His skin prickled, crawling with embarrassment and alarm.

"Sorry. I didn't . . ." he stammered.

He couldn't make sense of the sight of his mother. She stood by the sink, slack and indistinct in the watery light. Only her mouth moved, her lower lip quivering slightly as she stared into the mirror, pinned to her own reflection. It seemed to Ryan that Dawn couldn't look away, that if she broke that connection, she'd collapse, crumple weightlessly to the floor.

"Mom?" he asked, his voice hushed and wary, "are you all right?"

Dawn didn't answer, and the sick feeling in Ryan's throat thickened.

"Mom?" he repeated, the word freighted with urgency. "Did the alarm wake you up? 'Cause I'm sorry . . ."

Dawn tilted her head, still scrutinizing her image with bleary intensity. "Wha--?" she murmured. "No. I don't know . . ." She licked her finger, arching her browns, and slicked them into place. With her other hand, she gathered her hair into a froth of dirty curls on top of her head.

"What do you think, baby?" she demanded suddenly, pivoting to face Ryan. Her lips stretched, wide and insistent, over her teeth.

"I don't know. What about, Mom?" At a loss, Ryan frantically searched his mother's face for clues. He braced himself against the doorjamb, one hand flat on each side.

"Me, silly," Dawn replied impatiently. "Come on, Ryan. I still look good, don't I? Hell, I'm not sayin' I'm Miss America or anything, but admit it. I still look damn good." Her mouth froze, cheeks curved like parentheses around the tense imperative of her smile.

In school, sometimes, kids who were called on to read would skip any words contained in brackets, assuming they weren't important. Ryan never did. He knew that meaning hid everywhere, in shadows, and silence, and between the lines.

His mother's smile, caught in those rigid creases, held nothing of happiness. Ryan could only see need.

Dawn was waiting, her eyes eager and expectant. "Right, baby?" she urged. "I'm not turning into an old lady, am I?"

Old.

Ryan sucked in a shamed breath.

It was his mother's birthday. And he had forgotten.

He had never done that before.

"No, Mom," he whispered. "You're really pretty. Um . . . I'll give you your gift tonight, but . . . happy birthday."

Dawn crooned a small sound, all air and soft vowels. She released her hair, letting it cascade around her damp cheeks. "Aw, kiddo, thanks," she breathed.

Just like that, the spell of the mirror broke, and there was his mother, vivid and unpredictable. She extended her arms, engulfing Ryan in an impromptu hug. He still felt uneasy in his sleep-rumpled pajamas, pressed against the thin fabric of Dawn's nightgown, but he lifted his face for her kiss. A laugh danced behind her eyes when she bent down to him. "So, baby, you got me a present?" she asked eagerly. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"I don't know," Ryan stammered, covering lies with confusion. "What's a breadbox?"

"Somethin' we don't have," Dawn giggled. She nuzzled her face into his forehead, her warm, musty breath tickling his skin. "But it don't matter. I love surprises. Maybe I'll make a cake! We'll celebrate tonight, huh? Whaddya say?"

"The fuck?" Trey growled behind them.

Snared in his mother's embrace, Ryan cringed, unable to face his brother. Dawn pivoted, pulling him with her and caroling happily, "Hey, hon! What are you doin' up? Come to join the party?"

"Oh fucking shit," Trey groaned. He shook his head, grimacing. "What are you, wasted already, TW?"

"She's not," Ryan whispered, a warning and a plea. "It's her birthday, Trey."

"Yeah? Well newsflash, Ry. Normal people don't celebrate in the bathroom. And I gotta take a leak. So if you don't mind . . ." With exaggerated courtesy Trey swept his hand across his chest, pointing to the hallway.

Dawn's gaze skittered around, bewildered, before she grinned sheepishly. "Jeez, we are in the bathroom. Come on, Ry," she urged, shuffling him in front of her. "You can make me some coffee, okay?"

Ryan hesitated. His own bladder strained, painfully full, but Trey was already closing the door, and Dawn's hands gripped his shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen.

Since his body had betrayed him, letting him sleep until the alarm sounded, its needs would have to wait.

After three sips of well-sugared coffee, Dawn stood up and stretched. "Thanks for rememberin' my birthday, kiddo," she purred. Her hands fell onto Ryan's arms, and she rubbed them, propping her chin on his head. When she spoke, the words wafted, wistful and thin, through strands of his hair. "You know, your dad always used to . . . Well, shit, never mind that. Guess I'll just . . . go back to bed. Love you, baby."

At the rare mention of his father, Ryan stiffened. He swung around, his whole body a question, but Dawn was already shambling out. The limp ends of her untied sash slithered after her. For another minute, Ryan sat, absently smoothing the chipped edge of a coffee cup. Then he tiptoed back into his bedroom.

"Trey?" he whispered. His voice, still unreliable, emerged in a smothered squeak.

One of Trey's eyes opened to a milky, malevolent slit before shutting again.

"Come on, Trey. I need to ask you something."

Trey's leg kicked out, his heel connecting with Ryan's hip, then ricocheting into the corner of the dresser. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, shoving himself into a sitting position and rubbing his foot. "You are such a little shit, Ry."

Ryan took a defensive step back, but he stared down his brother's indignant glare. "I have a question," he insisted.

"God! What?" Trey snapped. His hand clawed the air before it tightened into a warning fist.

Ryan swallowed. "It's about dad . . ." Abruptly, a curtain closed over his brother's face. "Trey, please? You remember him better than I do."

"Not. Better," Trey muttered.

The words, almost inaudible, echoed with old hurt, and for one moment Ryan could see himself reflected in his brother's unguarded eyes. He sucked in his breath, moving gingerly, until he was sitting silent and patient on the edge of his bed.

At last, his expression shuttered again, Trey prompted dully, "Shit, say it, Ry. What do you want to know?"

"Just . . . did Dad do anything special? For Mom's birthday, I mean? 'Cause she . . ."

"The fuck!" Trey blurted. "This is about her?"

There was something savage in the way he bared his teeth, and Ryan flinched, shifting away. "I suppose," he admitted.

Gradually, the fury in Trey's face seeped away, leaving it empty and exhausted. He dropped his head back, bumping the wall once, twice, three times. "Why the fuck do you keep doing this, Ry?"

"Doing what?"

"Just . . . trying to hold on to stuff. Dad's gone, all right? And Mom? Well, hell, she might as well be."

Ryan shook his head. "She's just lonely," he argued softly.

"Lonely," Trey scoffed. He yanked his pillow from underneath him and pounded it in his lap. "Shit, LB, Mom's always got some son of a bitch in her life. Or at least her bed."

"Yeah, Trey. I know." Ryan's fingers plucked at his rough bedspread. He didn't dare look at his brother. "But she could still be lonely."

Trey snorted his dissent and Ryan surrendered. He didn't know what he had hoped anyway. Gathering his books, he headed for the door when his brother's voice stopped him.

"The sun," Trey mumbled.

"What?"

Trey hunched one shoulder, gnawing his lower lip. "Dad used to give Mom something with a sun on it," he recalled. "A necklace or something. Because, you know, she's Dawn. How fucking lameass is that?"

"Pretty lameass," Ryan agreed automatically. He slipped his hand in his pocket, fingering his father's chain.

Although he tried, he couldn't remember his mother ever wearing jewelry shaped like the sun. Probably it had all been broken, or lost.

Or maybe it was too precious to squander on everyday wear. Maybe Dawn was waiting for some special occasion.

Maybe she was waiting for his dad to come back.

"We could--" Ryan began. And stopped even before he heard his brother groan.

"Fuck, LB. If you think you're gonna make Mom happy by buying her some cheap, sorryass sun charm or something--"

"No, I know," Ryan said miserably. "I can't anyway. I've only got, like, eighty-five cents. But it's her birthday, Trey. We should do something . . ."

"I am doin' something," Trey announced. "I'm goin' back to sleep. You do—I don't know, fuckin' whatever, Ry." Flopping onto his stomach, Trey burrowed face down into the rumpled pillow.

"You're not going to school?"

"No, I'm not going to school! I said I'm goin' to sleep! If you ever leave me the fuck alone."

"Okay," Ryan whispered. "See you later? Right, Trey?"

With a visible effort, Trey raised his head. "Aww, shit," he sighed wearily. "You make me crazy, you know that, Ry? In my jeans pocket. There's five bucks you can have."

"Really?" Ryan asked, eagerness vying with shamed distrust in his voice.

"Fuck, yeah, really. But I am not singin' any sappy birthday song, got it?"

Ryan fished out the wadded bill, holding it reverently. "No singing," he promised. "And Trey? Thanks, man."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outside the dollar store, Ryan loitered uncertainly, scanning the jumbled window display. Everything looked disposable, like cheap imitations of whatever items they were supposed to be. Of course, cheap was the point; where else would he be able to buy a birthday present for only five dollars and ninety-three cents? Ryan jammed his hands into his pockets, searching for any coins that might be snagged in a seam, but found nothing except the familiar coil of his father's chain.

Cool and solid, it twined around his fingers.

There was a pawnshop across the street. In the time it took for the "Walk" sign to flash, Ryan considered the idea. It wouldn't be selling the chain, not really, he assured himself. He could always redeem it later, when he had the money.

Determined, he turned toward the curb, but the "Don't Walk" sign throbbed an admonition and Ryan froze.

He couldn't do it. That chain had been his birthday present from his mother, the one possession that still tethered him to both his parents. It would be wrong, like he was disowning them, if he exchanged it for money—for anything—even temporarily.

Besides, somewhere inside Ryan prowled a persistent fear he refused to recognize. The pawnshop owner might look at the chain and laugh. He might declare that it wasn't worth anything, and wave Ryan away, offering nothing except a gesture of pity or scorn. Or maybe both.

Ryan couldn't risk that. He pushed open the door of the dollar store and stepped inside. A bell tinkled and the cashier glanced up from some magazine that he immediately shoved under the counter

"Can I help you?" he asked sharply.

Ryan understood the code. Under the pretense of service, the clerk was warning, "I'm watching you, kid. You can't get away with anything here."

"Um . . . I'm looking for a birthday present for my mother."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I don't know." Ryan shrugged, his nose wrinkling slightly. The whole place smelled stale, filling his lungs with dust and despair. "She likes suns—I mean, you know, things shaped like the sun? But I don't have much money."

"Huh. Tell me something I don't know." The cashier corkscrewed a finger into his ear. "There's some dish towels over in the next aisle. I think they got a sun design. Pretty sure anyway."

Dish towels. Not earrings or a necklace. Nothing, really, for his mother at all.

Ryan nodded reluctantly. "Thanks," he murmured. He followed the cashier's pointing finger, but he barely glanced at the stack of towels with their grinning sunflowers—not suns at all—before a wink of tarnished gold beckoned him across the aisle.

One metal ashtray sat like an incongruous asterisk in the middle of an assortment of waddling puppy figurines. Gleaming cheaply, it resembled a plump, primitive sun that might smile in the sky of a child's drawing. Ryan picked it up, wincing as one of the rays stabbed his palm.

"Hey, kid? You want that?" the clerk called.

Ryan hesitated. The ashtray was tawdry, a parody of the gift he'd wanted to buy. But it cost just $4.59. With Trey's five dollars, he could afford it, and maybe this one time a gesture alone might suffice.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I'll take it."

With the plastic bag dangling limply from his wrist, Ryan paused outside the store. In the short time he'd spent shopping, the afternoon heat had intensified. Now it wrapped constricting coils around his body. Ryan stretched his t-shirt away from his throat, pushed back his tangled bangs and started to trudge home. His eyes fixed on the shattered sidewalk, but his mind drifted, seeing something else: an expanse of white sand, an unbroken horizon, blue sky meeting blue water, all of it glittering and pure.

"Ry! Hey! Ry, over here!"

Trey's voice, unexpected and almost unfamiliar, jolted Ryan out of his daydream. He blinked, briefly disoriented. Then a slow, wary smile tugged the corners of his mouth, as he recognized his brother lounging in the passenger seat of an idling car.

"Trey? Hey man, what are you doing here?" Ryan switched the thin bag, slick with sweat, to his other hand so that he could grasp the one his brother extended out the car window.

Abruptly, Trey yanked Ryan into a hug, mashing his face against the side-view mirror. He flinched, stunned by the surge of affection until he identified its source in the sweet, heady smell of his brother's breath.

"Trey--" he began, but the driver of the car cut him off.

"Hey, Atwood! This family reunion is fucking sweet, but what say we get going?"

"Shit, hold your water, Lukach." Trey reached behind him and opened the back door, then jabbed a finger at the boys already sitting in the back seat. "Shove over, you two. We'll give my little brother a ride. Hop in, Ry."

Both boys glowered, shifting over scant inches, and Ryan wavered. His eyes darted between them and Trey, weighing the rare invitation to join his brother against their lack of welcome.

"Gimme a break, Atwood," Lukach growled. "We ain't runnin' no babysitting service here."

Ryan stiffened. Before he could protest, Trey's rebuke sliced the thick, humid air. "Yeah, well, Ry's no baby, shithead. It's fucking hot out and we're gonna give him a ride. Get in, LB."

This time it was an order. Ryan slid inside, wedging his body against the door. He had barely settled before the car peeled away, its tires squealing, its radio blaring. Trey didn't bother to introduce him to anybody. In fact, the instant the car moved, he seemed to forget Ryan, all his attention concentrated on the blunt he was smoking possessively.

Fragments of conversation fought through the dense tangle of music, but Ryan didn't listen. He sat back drowsily, lulled by the secondhand smoke, trying to recapture his daydream, to picture a family, maybe his, on that perfect beach. Then the car careened around a corner, and he blinked.

Nothing outside looked familiar anymore.

"So I'm thinkin' we check out that new place, Russo's," Lukach suggested. "Heard they don't give a fuck about I.D. You can flash anything—bus pass, school I.D, whatever. Shit, I know one guy got in with a library card."

"You are so full of it," the guy beside Ryan chortled. "You don't know nobody with a fucking library card."

Ryan leaned forward, nudging his brother's arm. "Trey?" he said. "I thought we were going home."

Trey's head lolled back and he inhaled deeply, his cheeks hollowing and his eyes closed.

"Trey?" Ryan repeated, and stopped.

Why ask a question when he already knew the answer? His brother had only offered him a ride. Not a destination.

"Yeah, right, LB. Soon," Trey replied vaguely. "We're just gonna make one stop first. Right, guys? We won't be long."

Ryan gritted his teeth, his nails slicing through a fold of the plastic bag, but he said nothing. When the car finally stopped he got out with the others, trailing them as they headed for a nondescript door unmarked by any sign.

One of the boys elbowed Trey and he wheeled around, squinting at Ryan, who was backlit by the sun. "Aw, fucking shit," he groaned. "Look, LB, I forgot—you can't come in here."

Ryan's lips twisted. "You sure?" he asked pointedly. "I got a library card."

"Whoa!" Lukach exclaimed. "Baby brother's got him some balls." He snickered, scratching his groin. "Let's give it a shot, Atwood. Maybe we can pass him off as a midget."

"Shut the fuck up!" Trey growled. Lukach staggered back, palms raised defensively, but Trey ignored him. "Okay, Ry, just . . . I don't know, hang out here by the door. We're just gonna play a couple games of pool, that's all."

Grinning a grudging apology, Trey extended a hand, but Ryan jerked away and slid down onto the hot, unyielding pavement. Trey waited, flexing his fist. When Ryan remained silent, refused even to look up, he shrugged. "Well then, screw you, little brother," he muttered, and followed his friends inside.

For a while, Ryan sat rigid, fingering the points of the ashtray through the plastic bag, counting the times the traffic light changed, trying to decode muffled sounds that seeped from inside the bar. Eventually, though, boredom deflated him. His eyes drifted closed, and a kaleidoscope of sunlit colors twirled hypnotically behind his eyelids.

Maybe he fell asleep.

All Ryan knew for sure was that he was wrenched into awareness when someone twisted the bag out of his grasp mumbling drunkenly, "Well, well. Let's just see what we got here."

Instantly, he was on his feet, wrestling with some stranger who was waving the ashtray above his head.

"Give it back to me, asshole," Ryan snarled.

"Fucking piece of junk. You want it back? Yeah, you can have it, little bitch. Here—fetch!" The man holding the ashtray flung it like a Frisbee toward the street. Ryan leaped after it, but the man extended a leg, chuckling as Ryan tripped, one ankle twisting under him, both palms scraping the cement as he tried to catch himself. "Tha's for calling me a ash--asshole, kid," the man slurred. "Somebody should fucking teach you to respect your elders."

He spat, the glob of saliva landing next to Ryan's hand, then shambled away.

Dazed, Ryan lay sprawled on the sidewalk, squinting after the stranger's disappearing form. Finally, slowly, he rolled onto his side, just as Trey and his friends barreled out of the bar, heralded by peals of laughter. At the sight of Ryan pushing himself to one knee, eyes glinting with fury and unshed tears, they stopped abruptly.

"Ry! What the fuck happened?" Trey demanded. Guilt and concern and irritation chased each other across his face. "You get in a fight?"

Behind him, Ryan heard a car pull to a stop. "No. Stay away from me, Trey," he snapped. To his surprise, Trey obeyed. He even withdrew a few steps, propping one leg up against the wall of the bar and starting to pick his teeth nonchalantly. Ryan hoisted himself upright. He winced, staggering, and a hand caught him under the elbow.

"Steady there, kid. You hurt?"

Ryan's gaze darted sideways furtively, registered the dark blue uniform, the gun, the tone and stance of authority.

Cops. No wonder Trey had retreated.

"No," Ryan claimed, gritting his teeth. "I just—I fell, that's all."

"Yeah? You fell? Nobody pushed you? Those guys maybe?"

Instinctively, Ryan shook his head. He could see Trey and his friends watching, slouched and indifferent, like random strangers. "They weren't even here," he muttered bitterly. Shaking off the cop's hand, he turned to retrieve the ashtray, then stumbled, gasping with pain.

"Hold on. I've got it." The policeman steadied Ryan with one arm while he stooped to pick up the ashtray. It was bent, and its mangled rays curled like a dead spider's legs. "This what you wanted, kid?"

"Yeah," Ryan mumbled. He stretched out his hand, but the cop held the ashtray just out of reach, forcing him to move closer. His breath hissed as his weight came down on his left foot.

"Okay, son," the policeman said. "Sit down. Let's take a look at that ankle."

"No!" Ryan blurted. "It's fine. I'm fine." He forced himself to stand solidly, defiance erasing the evidence of pain.

There was the one inviolable rule. Whatever happens, don't involve the cops.

"Look, kid" the policeman urged patiently, "if you have a problem, we're here to help--" The words were directed at Ryan, but the man's eyes raked past him, to Trey and his friends, challenging them for the truth.

"No problem," Ryan claimed. Trey nodded almost imperceptibly, one thumb jerking up in approval. "Some guy just tried to take my--" His voice faltered, and he shrugged, finishing weakly, "my mom's birthday present. He's gone. But it's ruined anyway."

"Your mom will understand." It was a different voice, female. The policeman's partner had joined them, and she was smiling at Ryan, compassion warm in her voice and her eyes.

For some reason it hurt, that concern and confident prediction, scalding his bruised flesh and feelings like antiseptic on an open wound. Ryan's lips trembled, and he swiped a hand across his face, willing the cops not to notice, reminding himself that he was twelve. Too old to cry.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

It felt like a trap. Ryan circled the question warily, finally answered, "Ryan Atwood."

"Well Ryan Atwood, where do you live?"

Ryan hesitated, holding his breath, waiting for Trey to volunteer—something. He wasn't sure what. Finally, mechanically, he recited his address.

The policewoman's eyes narrowed, but her words were still soft with sympathy that Ryan couldn't bring himself to trust. "That far? How did you get here?"

"Walked," Ryan mumbled. "I like to walk." He locked his gaze on the sidewalk, unable to meet the cops' eyes, certain he'd see their disbelief, or worse, accusation.

The policeman snorted. "Well, you're in no shape to walk back, kid. You can't tell me that ankle doesn't hurt. Your hands too."

Ryan blinked at his hands in surprise. For the first time he realized that they were raw, etched with a thin map of blood.

The policewoman knelt next to him, a first aid kit open next to her. "This will sting a little," she warned as she sprayed something cold and astringent onto his palms. She blew lightly on his skin, before wrapping gauze around each hand. "My kids say that helps," she explained when Ryan looked at her quizzically. He ducked his head, ashamed of his quick tears, wanting to remind her that he wasn't her child. "Come on, sweetheart. We'll drive you home."

"No! I mean, thanks, but . . . "

"Hey, kid," Trey called. Ryan's eyes, dark with hope, flashed to his brother, but Trey remained slumped against the building, scratching his neck idly. "You should take them up on that. You know, ride home in style. Who knows? Maybe they'll even run the siren for you."

Trey's friends laughed and pounded his shoulder, imitating the shrill alarm.

"Punks," the policewoman muttered. She slipped an arm around Ryan. "Lean on me," she urged, steering him toward the squad car. Reluctantly, he limped beside her, but he glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his brother, his expression desolate.

Trey lowered his head. Touching a finger to his lips, he pulled it away in a kind of warning salute, waiting until Ryan nodded a promise: he wouldn't say anything to the cops. Or even to Dawn. Satisfied, Trey smiled slightly and sauntered down the sidewalk with his friends.

That was it then.

Trey had been smoking pot and probably drinking. Of course he would keep his distance from the police. And if that meant disavowing Ryan—well . . . maybe even the bonds of brotherhood had their limits.

Lost in a maze of disillusionment, Ryan realized suddenly that they had stopped walking. The backdoor of the police car was open and the cops were waiting for him to get in. He swallowed hard, took one halting half-step closer.

And froze.

The last time he'd been this close to a black and white, his father had been sitting, handcuffed and steel-faced, in the backseat. Moments later, the police car had vanished.

His father had vanished.

Suddenly Ryan couldn't breathe.

"Come on, kid." The policeman's voice was faintly impatient. "Let's get you home to your mom."

Ryan's gaze flickered and fell, before it could reveal anything. He slid in wordlessly and perched on the edge of the seat. Then he flinched and looked up, eyes desperate. "There are no door handles," he whispered.

The policeman grinned. "Noticed that, huh?"

"Come on, Ed," his partner reproved. She turned around, smiling reassurance. For the first time Ryan noticed that her hair was a riot of untidy blond curls, almost like Dawn's. "It's okay, sweetheart," she promised. "We'll let you out."

Automatically, Ryan nodded. He knew that.

Huddled in the corner of the car, he slid a hand in his pocket, gripping his father's chain, letting himself acknowledge how much he knew.

The police would let him out, and he would be left to answer Dawn's questions, her anger and accusations. Her disappointment.

It didn't matter that the police would explain that he had done nothing wrong. Ryan knew exactly what would resonate with his mother: the sight of a black and white pulling up in front of the Atwood house; the cops' solid footsteps; neighbors staring, whispering behind their cupped hands; the image of Ryan locked in the backseat, just as his father had been.

Like some warped memory.

Or maybe an omen.

And he would have to face Dawn empty handed. With a flush of sudden shame, Ryan realized that when the policewoman had bandaged his hands, he had set the ashtray aside. Somehow, he had forgotten to retrieve it. Of course, it had been ruined anyway, but he might have been able to fix it, to straighten the rays and polish the tarnished gold.

Now it lay abandoned, one more piece of garbage littering the street.

Ryan had nothing to offer his mother on her birthday.

He couldn't even give her the truth.


	11. 10: Ryan's First Time

The First Time: Ryan's First Time 

**Part 1**

The first time Ryan had sex, none of the terms he knew seemed to fit: not make love, certainly not slept together, not bang, or hump, or even fuck.

He had no idea what to call it.

The moment he stepped into his house late that afternoon, Ryan knew it was a mistake. Empty beer bottles pockmarked the living room, and one of the couch cushions, wet and stained, jutted out of the seat, exposing a snarl of broken springs underneath. The window fan whined, and on television a talk show host prattled loud, humorless jokes.

Even over those noises, though, Ryan could hear the other sounds. Thick and guttural, they bled through his mother's bedroom door. It had been weeks since he had last heard them, but he knew exactly what they meant: Dawn had found a new man, and had brought him back here, to their house.

To their home.

To her bed.

Several sharp slaps sliced the fetid air, and a moan tangled in some sticky, satisfied laughter. Ryan froze. He clenched everything—teeth, muscles, eyes—against all the images that those sounds conjured and his skin began to prickle then chafe, abrasive and brittle, so easy to tear. For a moment he stood without breathing. If he waited, motionless, the shame and anger might abate, leaving behind nothing but arid resignation.

Really, he knew, he should be used to this by now.

Opening his eyes, Ryan scanned the chaos in the living room. Automatically, he picked up an overturned bottle. He set it upright on the coffee table, grimacing at the feel of the glass, clammy with condensation, beer foam, and sweat. Drying his palm on his jeans, he retreated one step toward the door. Then he stopped, debating.

The smart thing to do—the only thing, really—was to leave. But Trey was supposed to come by later, and Ryan had promised to be waiting outside with a bag of belongings that he'd forgotten. To get it, he'd have to pass his mother's bedroom, go into his own, rummage through the debris Trey had left in his wake the last time he'd stormed out of the Atwood house, and finally retrace his steps, furtive as a thief.

He could do that. He could move quietly, invisibly, disturbing no one.

Ryan had a lot of experience in keeping quiet.

Just as he toed aside a discarded undershirt, Dawn's voice leaked into the living room, making him pause again. "Fuck, that was good," she slurred. "Gimme a cigarette, huh, hon?"

Ryan heard the bed creak, the sound of bare feet smacking the floor, the nightstand drawer scratching open and shut, some muttered profanity, shuffling steps. Clues, all of them. He should have pieced them together, preparing himself, but somehow he didn't. So he had no time to escape or even avert his eyes when a man shouldered the bedroom door open and slouched out toward the kitchen, one hand scratching his naked groin.

The man lumbered to a stop at the sight of Ryan, piercing him with a poisonous glare. "What the fuck?" he snarled. "Who the hell are you?"

Ryan couldn't force words past the sour clot that formed in his throat. His gaze plummeted, fixing on his feet as they stumbled a half-step backwards.

The man advanced. Ryan could tell because he felt the floor move, heard an uneven board groan under the alien weight.

"I asked you a question, you little shit. What the hell are you doing in here?"

Ryan's eyes flashed, flaring light and then dark with silent invective.

"What are you, a fucking retarded or something? Answer me!"

"I live here," Ryan gritted at last.

"Like hell you do," the man retorted. "Dawn didn't say nothin' about no kid."

At that, Ryan jerked his chin up, his expression blazing. "I live here," he repeated. He enunciated precisely, emphasizing each word. "And you're in my way." Trying not to look below the man's mottled face, not to inhale the hot stench of smoke and booze and sex, Ryan started to sidle toward the hall.

The man's brows bristled together and he growled a warning. "Where the fuck you think you're goin', boy?" he demanded.

"To my room. In my house," Ryan replied. He ducked past the man, but as he did, he muttered a terse, bitter, "Asshole."

It was a mistake. Another one.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him around and slamming him hard against the wall. "What did you call me, you little shit?"

"Nothing." Ryan bit the word, spat out two distinct syllables like drops of acid.

"The hell you didn't." In one movement, the man cuffed Ryan's cheek, while his forearm locked like a vice across his throat. He leaned in, eyes narrowed to malevolent slits, breath putrid and suffocating.

Panicked, Ryan clawed at the sweaty wrist, elbow, fingers, anything he could reach. When the man didn't release him, he kicked out desperately, his sneakered foot striking bone.

"Goddman!" the man bellowed. "You fucking little--"

His furious yelp summoned Dawn to the bedroom door. Her eyes were bleary, blue smudges in her flushed face, and she clutched an unlit cigarette in one hand while the other plucked at the neckline of her dingy slip.

"Frankie?" she mumbled hazily, and then, as she started to focus, "Oh, God. Oh, hell. Ry? Frankie? Hon, let him go, okay? It's . . . he's my kid. C'mon, Frankie. Back off, you're hurting him."

"Your kid?" Frankie's arm dropped, but the unyielding weight of his body kept Ryan trapped against the wall. "Fucking hell. I thought he was some sonofabitch thief. You didn't tell me you had no kid, Dawnie."

Dawn bit her lip and shrugged, attempting an innocent, ill-fitting smile. One shredding strap slid off her shoulder. "Yeah, well," she stammered. "I guess maybe I didn't. C'mon, Frankie. Let him go now, huh?"

A garbled snort erupted from one side of Frankie's mouth. Skewering Dawn with a disgusted glare, he ripped himself off Ryan and stalked back into the bedroom.

Ryan leaned over, hands gripping his knees, sucking in shuddering breaths. His eyes clamped shut, trying to blot out memories of the man's naked flesh, the coarse coils of dark matted hair, the sneer that reduced Ryan to an intruder in his own home. When his mother touched him, one finger skimming his bruised cheek, Ryan flinched.

"Don't," he warned. "Just . . . don't."

It took two tries to push his body upright, but as soon as he could, Ryan ducked away from Dawn. Her hand, that had hovered above his shoulder, not quite daring contact, fell futilely to her side.

He didn't need her, Ryan told himself desperately. He could stand unsupported.

He would prove it.

Slowly, he limped into the kitchen. Dawn padded barefoot behind him. She watched Ryan moisten a washcloth, scrub it over his arms and his neck, every bit of exposed skin, before rewetting it and pressing it to his face.

"Shit, baby, I'm sorry," she murmured plaintively. "I just . . . I lost track of time, you know? Forgot you'd be home. You okay? Hey, you're okay, right, kiddo? You're not really hurt?"

Ryan wondered if Dawn even knew what that question meant.

Her thumb brushed under his chin and he jerked away. "Ry?" she wheedled. "Don't be like that, baby. Hey, Frankie knows you now. It won't happen again, I promise. Forgive me? Please?"

Ryan risked one desolate glance at his mother. His last hope had shattered long ago, but each time Dawn apologized, he dredged up a shard, searching her face for some new expression, some awareness, any suggestion that this time would be different.

It was never different.

Dawn looked the way she always did, wounded and sheepish, yet still sure of absolution.

Why not? Ryan thought. She always received it.

He crumpled the washcloth in his fist, his skin catching on the coarse fabric. "You didn't even tell the guy you had kids, Mom?" he asked tonelessly. "Trey and me—we don't even exist?"

Peering furtively over her shoulder, Dawn shuffled closer and rubbed Ryan's arm in apology. "Don't be mad, baby," she pleaded. "It's not like you think, honest. Guys like Frankie—they're not so crazy about an instant family, that's all. I woulda told him about you once he got to really like me."

"Yeah. Sure you would."

"I would," Dawn insisted. "Whaddya think? I'd keep you and Trey a secret forever?"

"That guy won't be here forever," Ryan mumbled.

As soon as he heard the words, he knew how they'd sound. Instinctively, he braced himself against the edge of the sink.

Dawn's lips drew back, baring her teeth, and her eyes glinted dagger-sharp and dangerous. "Hey!" she hissed, nails biting into Ryan's bicep. "What the hell are you sayin', Ry? I can't keep a man?" She took several ragged breaths as Ryan winced and pulled away. When she spoke again, her voice was ragged with hurt. "God, it's like you've turned into Trey or somethin'. I thought at least you loved me, baby. You always used to think I was beautiful."

Ryan hid himself behind his lashes. He was so tired of this. In the weeks since Trey had moved out, leaving them alone, Dawn seemed to tug at him constantly, her fingers pinching, plucking his arm, pleading for reassurance. Always wanting . . . something. And lately he had so little to give.

"You are," Ryan said. The words emerged rote, too insubstantial to support the weight of truth, so he tried again. "You are beautiful, Mom," he repeated more forcefully. "That guy? Shit, he's an ass. You don't really want him, do you?"

Dawn lifted a fistful of hair and let it drop, her mouth twisting unhappily. "I don't know. Maybe not him exactly," she conceded. "But, hell . . . somebody, Ry. And Frankie's here. He likes bein' with me—that's somethin' anyway. Sometimes you just have to settle for not bein' alone. You know?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Shit, no," Dawn sighed, "of course you don't. No way you could know that at your age, baby." Absently, she hugged Ryan close, one finger tracing slow patterns on his back. He caught his breath. When he was little, that was the way she always used to lull him to sleep. Sliding her hand under his t-shirt, Dawn would write his name and hers and Trey's and his father's over and over, invisibly, gently, until Ryan's eyes drifted shut, soothed by the tender contact, the certainty that his entire family was engraved on his skin.

Only now he realized: it had all been a lie. None of that false security withstood the light of day.

He tensed, his muscles tightening under Dawn's touch. "Don't, Mom," he whispered.

"Whaddya mean?" Dawn roused herself, squinting at Ryan blankly. "Don't what, baby?"

"Do that. Call me that." Ryan squirmed out of her grasp. His words collapsed in the air, hollow, almost inaudible. "I'm not a baby. Not anymore. Not for a long time now."

"No?" Dawn blinked. Her arms dropped limply to her sides and she inclined her head, staring at Ryan with bewildered loss. "Huh," she breathed finally. "No, I guess you're not."

Frankie's impatient voice bellowed from the bedroom. "Dawnie! You comin' back here or what?"

Instantly, Dawn's expression changed. "Yeah!" she yelled, licking her lips. "Be right there, hon!" Lowering her voice, she confided hungrily, "Listen, Ry, Frankie's waitin' for me. You think you could maybe . . .?"

"Disappear," Ryan concluded. He forced the word between his clenched teeth. "Yeah."

Dawn smiled, her mouth loose and wet, her eyes unfocused. She patted the air beside his shoulder, missing him completely. "That's my best boy. It won't be for long," she murmured vaguely. "You go--I don't know, have fun or somethin'."

The phrase mocked Ryan as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

Have fun or something.

How was he supposed to do that exactly? He had two dollars and thirteen cents in his pocket, decrepit sneakers that pinched his feet, and a bike with a broken back rim. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. All he could see in front of him was a scarred sidewalk, broken like every promise his mother had ever made.

It taunted Ryan, reminding him that even if he tried, he couldn't go far. In the end, he would just have to come back again.

At a loss, he turned toward Theresa's house. The sun blinded him for a moment, but then he found her, framed by her bedroom window. Her hair spilled forward in thick, careless waves as she glowered at something she seemed to be writing. While Ryan watched, she chewed her pencil, then threw it down in disgust and stuck out her tongue at her paper. His mouth curled around a silent laugh, imagining the colorful invectives that would follow.

Almost as if she could feel his amused gaze, Theresa looked up. Her scowl transformed itself into an embarrassed smile and she beckoned eagerly

Ryan ducked his head and shrugged.

Lifting her chin imperiously, Theresa furrowed her brows and nodded once. Her lips formed the single word, "Come."

In spite of himself, Ryan grinned, gratitude warming him, washing away the stain of revulsion that clung to his body everywhere Frankie had touched. He vaulted off the porch, covering the yard in four strides, and arrived at Theresa's door just as she did.

"Ryan!" she caroled, catching his hand. "Have you done the math homework yet? God, I hate algebra--" Abruptly, she sucked in her breath, her smile dissolving in a flare of anger and concern. "What is this? Who did this?" she demanded, touching his discolored cheek.

Ryan forced himself not to wince. "It's nothing," he claimed.

"It is not nothing," Theresa argued. Then she sighed, shaking her head. "But I know you won't tell me. Come inside, Ryan." Lacing her fingers through his, she backed through the door, pulling him along insistently. Her eyes glinted dark and demanding, daring him to defy her.

Just inside the threshold, Ryan stopped. He took a slow breath, filling his lungs with the heady aroma of Theresa's home: spices and welcome and cleanliness.

It always amazed him, the contrast between her house and his own. So many things were similar: thrift shop furniture, a large TV dominating the living room, the low ceilings and uneven floorboards. But something essential marked the place as distinct, something ineffable that Ryan sensed but couldn't explain.

Sometimes he thought wistfully that he could almost remember that atmosphere in his own home a long time ago. Back in Fresno, back when his family was intact, before it had broken and begun to decay.

Never in Chino, though.

Maybe, really, never at all.

Realizing that Theresa was swinging his hand impatiently, Ryan roused himself.

"Atiende!" she chided. "Come back, Ryan! You're disappearing again."

"No I'm not," he assured her. "I'm right here . . ."

"Good. Just stay here then. I'll get us something to eat."

Ryan nodded and glanced around, frowning when he realized that they weren't alone. "Hey, Turo," he murmured.

Theresa's brother shifted in the recliner. "Hey, Ry," he replied absently. The commercial ended and he peered up from the TV. "Shit, mi amigo," he chortled, pointing at Ryan's face. "Somebody got you but good. So what does the other guy look like?"

Ryan flushed with shamed memory. His fist pulsed convulsively, but he didn't answer.

From the kitchen, where she was arranging a plate of cookies, Theresa called, "The other guy is a stupid hijo de puta. If you want to know what one looks like, mi hermano, you can borrow my mirror. Just try not to break it with your ugly-ass face."

Arturo rolled his eyes. "Watch out, Ry," he advised in a loud whisper. "She's been evil all day. I think it must be that time of month. You know." He smirked meaningfully, but Ryan just stared at the floor. He didn't respond.

"Turo! Cállate!" Theresa halted in the doorway, her face flaming. "It is not!" Glaring fiercely at her brother, she slipped an arm around Ryan's rigid waist and steered him into her bedroom.

"Keep the damn door open!" Arturo shouted.

"When you keep your stupid mouth closed, maybe!" Theresa retorted. She slammed her door viciously and spun around, hoping to catch Ryan in a smile, but he had dropped into a chair. He was breathing hard, his face shuttered, eyes blank.

Quietly, Theresa set the tray she was carrying on the dresser and leaned back against it. "Let's see," she mused. "Trey's not around, so . . . it must be your mama?" Her voice throbbed with concern.

The room filled with Ryan's silence.

"She's not worth this," Theresa whispered sorrowfully.

Ryan's eyes flashed then, lightening in an overcast sky, distant and dangerous.

"Ah, no. I don't mean it like that, Ryan. I don't mean your mama is worthless. I mean . . . she shouldn't make you feel this way." Crawling onto her bed, Theresa nestled against the pillows and patted the dusky pink quilt. Her fingers curled in invitation and she tilted her head, miming a wordless, apologetic plea.

Ryan hesitated. Then, wearily, he sank down next to her. Underneath him, the springs gave a rusty sigh, and Ryan reflexively echoed the sound. He pushed his back flat against the headboard and hugged his knees to his chest. "She never even told the guy that she had any kids," he muttered. "He thought I was breaking in to rob them or something."

"Oh," Theresa breathed. Comprehension lengthened the word and gave it texture. "And that's why . . .?" Her thumb skimmed his cheekbone just beneath the vivid bruise.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Pretty much. You know, Theresa, sometimes I think . . . Trey and me, we just get in her way. All she wants to do is . . . Never mind. My mom would be happier without us around, that's all." His lips quirked bitterly. "Well, shit, Trey isn't really around anymore, is he?"

Theresa crooned something incoherent but vaguely comforting. She scooted closer, resting her hand on Ryan's leg, peering up so that he had to meet her eyes. "Your mama, Ryan? I promise, she does love you. She's just unhappy. But that's not your fault."

There was a tiny hole in one knee of Ryan's jeans. He stabbed his thumb into it, pinching a few loose denim threads between his nails. "I know," he claimed.

"Do you?"

Swallowing, Ryan turned his face away.

"Do you?" Theresa repeated. She pressed a palm against his uninjured cheek, one finger tracing the line of his brow.

Ryan ducked his head, shrugging. The bed shifted with his change of weight. It rolled him against Theresa, throwing them off balance so that his mouth parted and grazed the inside of her wrist. Instantly, both of their bodies stiffened, surprised into unexpected intimacy.

For a breathless moment they froze, suspended by sensations: warmth, and confusion, and fearful yearning. Then simultaneously, they jerked apart. Ryan's skin burned, and from the way Theresa flinched, he thought that hers must feel scalded too. He watched guiltily as she clambered off the bed and busied herself at the dresser, rearranging the contents the tray.

She began to prattle, the words rushed and stumbling. "These are just plain old butter cookies, Ryan, because that stupid, greedy Turo ate all the chocolate chips. Well, not all. When I took out the bag, there were just four little-bitty ones left in the bottom. Why would anybody put back a bag with only four chocolate chips? Honestly, my brother makes me so crazy sometimes."

Theresa kept her back to Ryan, but he could still see her in the mirror. She seemed to be hiding, face averted, gaze lowered so that her lashes shadowed her cheeks. Her fingers fluttered around the cookies, nudging them closer and then prodding them further apart. Ryan was used to a Theresa who defied the world. This girl was a stranger. Her body shrank, shy and uncertain, and her mouth moved nervously when she finished speaking, pink tongue darting out, then retreating.

Ryan realized with alarm that his own was doing the same thing.

He clamped his lips closed and hugged his knees tighter, drying his suddenly clammy palms on his jeans. When he peeked again at Theresa, he noticed for the first time that her thin, lacy t-shirt didn't quite meet her shorts. Above its waistband, a line of skin flirted, creamy and exposed, whenever she reached forward.

Ryan forced his eyes away. He wanted to roll off the other side of the bed, to duck out of sight, pretending to tie his shoelace or pick something off the floor, anything so that he could crouch down until the throbbing between his legs subsided.

Except.

He couldn't move.

He could scarcely breathe.

The little air Ryan found felt sharp, shards of glass that lodged in his throat and cut his voice into jagged shreds.

"Theresa . . ." he began. And stopped. Her name tasted foreign on his tongue. He wondered if he was even pronouncing it right, wondered what he wanted to say anyway.

Bracing himself, Ryan prepared to try again when the moment shattered.

Ryan's First Time Part 2 

"Hey! Theresa! Ryan!" Arturo yelled. He shoved the door open and slouched against the frame, studying them with slit-eyed suspicion. "I'm goin' out. Mama will be home in about an hour. And you two--" his finger sliced the air between them, "better not do anything while you're here alone. Understand what I'm sayin'?"

Theresa whirled around. With relief, Ryan realized that he recognized her again. "What?" she retorted. "You mean anything like talk? Or breathe? God, Turo, do you practice being an ass or does it just come naturally? Wait—I already know the answer to that question."

She glared at her brother, and he scowled in response. Stalking over to the dresser, he grabbed two of the cookies. "Remember," he warned, looming over Ryan, "I know you Atwoods. Trey—shit, I've seen him in action."

Ryan's lips tightened. "I'm not . . ." he began.

"Yeah, maybe not yet, baby brother," Turo scoffed. "But don't even try to pretend you're different where it counts. You just keep your hands—and everything else—to yourself."

Stuffing both cookies in his mouth, Arturo pressed his index fingers together and aimed them at Ryan's groin.

"Estúpido cochino! I hope you choke on those cookies! Out! ¡Vete! Right now!" With a hiss of disgust, Theresa flattened her palms against her brother's back and began to push him out of the room.

"Eh . . . Don't think you're so much, muchachita. I'm goin' because I feel like goin' that's all," Arturo protested. He looked over his shoulder and grinned wickedly. "And you behave too. You think I haven't noticed how you act when that one comes over?" Batting his eyes, he simpered coyly, "Oooh, come in, Ry-an."

Theresa unleashed a furious torrent of Spanish, giving Arturo a final shove. Only after the front door slammed behind him did she pivot slowly, and even then she avoided meeting Ryan's eyes.

"Just, please, don't listen to Turo. Like ever," she murmured, "I'm sorry, Ryan. He's just . . ."

"Teasing, I know."

"Not just that. I mean . . . the rest of it." Blushing, Theresa bit her lip. She turned to her desk, straightened a stack of notebooks, picked up a plush toy rabbit, patted its nose and set it down, before darting a glance at Ryan. Her eyes glistened, liquid and lost.

"Hey, no, Theresa, it's okay. Turo's your big brother," Ryan said softly. "He wants to protect you. I get that."

"But he doesn't have to protect me," Theresa demurred. She flushed again, her voice faint and tremulous. "Not from you anyway."

"Why don't we just . . . pretend Turo was never here?" Ryan suggested.

Theresa's face brightened with relief. "Turo? Turo who?" she countered innocently. With an impish giggle, she retrieved the tray from the dresser, balancing it between the two of them as she sat back down on the bed.

Ryan glanced at the cookies. His lips parted, then curved into a small lopsided smile. Theresa had fanned blue and white napkins, cloth ones, around the perimeter of the plate, alternating the colors and aligning their edges as precisely as if she were serving royalty.

Not just the boy next-door, with his constant bruises, torn jeans, and haunted eyes.

But Ryan. A person she valued. Who deserved to be treated as someone special.

"This looks . . ." Pausing, Ryan scanned his mental dictionary, but he couldn't find the exact word he wanted. "Great," he concluded futilely.

"You think so?" Theresa stroked the rim of the dish. Her fingernails, Ryan noticed, were the same fragile, translucent pink as the glass. "They're just cookies."

"No, really. It's great," Ryan repeated. "Thanks." Bobbing his head gratefully, he reached for a cookie just as Theresa did, and their knuckles bumped in the air above the tray. "Sorry," he stammered. "You first--"

Theresa scooted back, snatching her hand away. "No, you. I was getting it for you anyway."

Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay," he agreed. Spreading a blue napkin over his knees, he raised the cookie to his mouth. He could feel Theresa watching, her gaze dark and intent, as he bit down and chewed carefully. A few buttery crumbs clung to his lips and he slid the tip of his tongue around, trying to collect them all.

Theresa's eyes widened and she inhaled sharply. "Milk!" she exclaimed, scrambling off the bed.

"Mmm . . ." Ryan swallowed, confused. "What?"

"We need milk. I'll be right back."

"Theresa, wait. We don't have to have milk."

She paused, clinging to the doorframe, as if she needed something to hold her erect. "Yes, we do," she insisted, and spun out of sight before Ryan could protest again.

He counted the seconds that she was gone: eighty-two of them, time enough for him to finish his cookie and select another one, centering it on a white napkin that he placed neatly next to the pillow.

"Chocolate milk!" Theresa caroled, reappearing with a glass in each hand. "At least Turo didn't find the cocoa too . . ." She stopped at the sight of the bed and her voice softened. "Ryan? Is that for me?"

Ryan nodded, suddenly self-conscious.

"Oh. Thank you." Setting her own glass on the nightstand, Theresa handed the other one to Ryan. Her knees dipped in a near-curtsey, and she eased onto the edge of the mattress.

"You'll fall," Ryan warned. "Here." He picked up the napkin-wrapped cookie, making room next to him.

Demurely, gracefully, Theresa slid closer. She stretched out her legs, crossing her bare feet at the ankles. Staring at her own lap, she took a prim bite of her cookie, then a sip of her milk as Ryan drained his own glass.

They had done the same thing so often before.

Sitting in companionable silence, sharing snacks on Theresa's bed in the sultry early evening heat: it had almost become a private ritual. But this time, for some reason, it all felt unfamiliar and freighted with expectation.

At least to Ryan.

Fading sunlight simmered on every surface. It burnished the furniture, the floors, Theresa's skin, even Ryan's own, with a rich, golden glow. Ryan's clothes chafed, tight and heavy, as though he had outgrown them, and the quiet, usually so comfortable, churned with conflicting echoes:

_Dawn and Frankie moaning behind her door._

_Theresa's laughter._

_Trey's tales about his own sexual prowess_

_The whisper of fabric against skin as she moved._

_His raw taunts about Ryan becoming a man._

_Theresa's gossamer sighs._

_Arturo's warnings._

_The lilt of her voice whenever she said Ryan's name_.

Ryan shifted uneasily. He wanted real sound to drown out remembered ones, but the radio was out of reach, and he couldn't risk moving. Desperately, he searched for something, scanning the room for inspiration. To his alarm, danger lurked everywhere. Ryan's gaze ricocheted off all the hazards, the rumpled coverlet, the simple crucifix on the wall, Theresa's glistening thighs, her rosy breasts, rising and falling under scallops of eyelet lace.

With no other recourse, he finally focused on Theresa's face, just as she drank the last of her milk and replaced her on the nightstand. Ryan couldn't help it. Relief and a dizzy sense of normalcy made him laugh out loud.

Theresa's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is so funny, Ryan Atwood?" she demanded.

"You. You have a moustache."

"I don't!" Theresa protested, scrubbing her mouth. "Mi abuela, now she has a moustache. Mine is chocolate milk, and you know it, Ryan. Besides, you have one too."

"Yeah?" Ryan licked his upper lip. "Maybe I did. But now I don't," he declared with satisfaction.

Theresa giggled. "Yes, you still do. Half of one anyway. Right . . . there." Delicately she traced a line above the right side of Ryan's mouth, holding up her stained finger as evidence. "See? You are so much messier than I am."

"Really? We'll see about that." Grinning wickedly, Ryan lifted his glass, dunked her finger in it and used it to draw a new mustache on Theresa's face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with delighted fury. "That is not fair, Ryan Atwood. You get that off me right now, every bit of it." She grabbed for her napkin, but before she could reach it, before he quite knew what he was doing himself, Ryan caught her wrists, clasping her hands between his.

"Okay," he whispered. "Since you asked. . ." Slowly, deliberately, he licked all traces of the chocolate away, simultaneously lifting Theresa's hands to his mouth.

She gasped, and in that instant everything changed. Two of Theresa's fingers parted Ryan's lips, then his teeth, and he sucked them inside, lapping them with his tongue. Her other hand slipped off his knee, skidding between his thighs. It landed at the base of his zipper, slowly curving to cup the growing bulge underneath.

"Theresa," Ryan moaned. "Don't. I mean . . . Please, it makes me want . . ."

"I know," she whispered. Wonder and fear thickened her voice. "Me too."

Ryan tensed, holding very still, resisting his body's impulse to push, to insist. "You're sure? Because if you're not . . . we don't have to . . . unless you're sure."

Theresa nodded. She leaned close, vanilla-scented hair veiling them both. "I'm sure," she murmured. "Only . . ." Her head dipped, half-smothering the next words against his chest. "It's my first time, Ryan."

Ryan threaded his fingers through her curls and shifted slightly, so that his hips lifted as his other hand slipped under Theresa's t-shirt. "Mine too," he admitted, the two words rolling together. Rubbing his thumb over one nipple, he coaxed it to erection.

"Really?" Theresa shuddered, catching her breath, as Ryan traced swirling patterns over to her other breast. "You haven't . . . I mean, with Mica? Or anybody?"

"Not. This. So . . . you'll tell me if anything . . . you know, hurts?"

Theresa nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Ryan echoed. "Okayokayokayokayokay." He half-chanted the words, a litany that was both question and promise. "So can I . . .?" Grasping the hem of her t-shirt, he waited until Theresa nodded again, then slid it over her head and dropped it to the floor. His fingers shook. They felt large and clumsy, and it took him two tries to unhook the thin lace of her bra.

Theresa made a small, mewing sound. Her head fell back as Ryan buried his face against her breasts. He licked first one, then the other, before nipping at them gently and sliding his mouth down the fragile hollow between her ribs.

All at once, everything accelerated, surging in a rush of heat and moisture and urgent flesh. Ryan fumbled with the button on Theresa's waistband, finally tearing it off in his haste to push her shorts down. Instinctively Theresa shimmied them loose and kicked them away, bracing herself against the inside of Ryan's thighs. His knees opened, making room for her to crouch between them. Feral grunts formed in the back of his throat as Theresa pulled off his t-shirt, then reached down to yank impatiently at his zipper. He pushed onto his elbows, about to roll over so he could straddle her, when his erection burst free. Swallowing convulsively, eyes burning like blue-black flames, Theresa reached out. As though approaching an animal that might be wild, she touched the head with one wary finger. Then, slowly, she began to stroke, circling from the tip to the base and back up again.

Something flickered in Ryan's mind then, some stinging, insistent awareness that made him stiffen, wrenching himself away.

"Stop. Theresa! Oh shit," he groaned. "Shit, we can't . . . I don't have . . ."

"What?" Theresa rocked back on her heels, staring at Ryan incredulously. "Wasn't that what you wanted? I thought . . ."

"No, I do . . . it's just . . . I didn't expect . . ." Ryan's fist slammed into the mattress. "Fuck! We shouldn't do this without . . ."

"Oh!" Theresa's eyes widened with stunned comprehension. "Wait, Ryan," she ordered breathlessly. "I'll be right back."

She vanished in a flash of milky skin and tangled curls.

Sixty-two seconds. Ryan counted, cursing silently, hands fisted around folds of the coverlet, until Theresa reappeared, holding a silver packet.

"Turo doesn't even bother to hide them," she explained shyly. "Do you want me to . . .? I mean, should I . . .?"

Ryan shook his head. "I'll do it." His voice grated with embarrassment, gratitude and need as he tore the edge of the package and rolled the condom—ribbed and bright blue—down his length.

"Maybe you should . . ." Theresa hooked a finger through one of Ryan's belt loops and tugged lightly.

"Yeah?"

She bobbed her head, licking her lips. "Please? I will too . . ."

Ryan sucked in his breath. He slipped off the bed, automatically shucking his jeans and shorts as Theresa stepped out of her panties. For a moment, they just stood looking at each other. Then, as though a switch had been thrown, it began again, the tempest of movement, limbs tangling, hands grasping, importunate mouths finding each other.

Ryan wasn't sure how they got back on the bed, but suddenly Theresa was beneath him. Her arms were wrapped tight around his neck, her legs open, and she was sobbing out choked little sounds, like begging, like thanks. Everything was wet—the fingers he dipped between her thighs, his shoulders and throat, where her tongue lapped voraciously, the tip of his cock, already leaking. He positioned himself, trying to move carefully, slowly, one small lucid corner of his mind cautioning him: "Theresa. Theresa."

A sound ripped from her mouth, like parchment tearing, as he entered her, and Ryan felt her flinch, then clutch him desperately.

"Don't," she moaned, and his stomach clenched.

"Don't?"

"Don't stop," Theresa whimpered. "Please."

"Okay? You're sure?"

Theresa's nails raked his back, pulling him into her. "I'm sure," she gasped.

"Okay." Ryan surrendered himself to his own body, the last of his control lost. "Okayokayokayokayokay." He panted with each thrust until the words garbled together, building to a crescendo in one sharp, inarticulate cry. Theresa arched up to meet him, fingers gouging his shoulders, burying a scream against his throat.

With a shuddering breath, Ryan collapsed, rolling to his side so he wouldn't crush Theresa under his weight. He couldn't find his voice for a minute, and when he finally did, it was husky and midnight-dark, belonging to someone he didn't know.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Theresa closed her eyes, opened them, smiled tremulously and nodded, just once.

"Wait," Ryan said. "I'll be right back." He turned aside, removed the condom, tied it, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he carried a damp washcloth and a towel. Theresa scooted up to a sitting position, holding out her hands, but Ryan shook his head, and began to sponge her clean, throat, arms, breast, stomach . . .

Theresa squirmed, giggling, and Ryan laughed with her. He stopped abruptly when he reached Theresa's thighs. Recoiling, he stared at the coverlet, rumpled, and ruined, and accusing him with its mottled red stain.

"There's blood," he said tightly. The words sounded strangled, and Ryan twisted the cloth he held into an unyielding knot.

Theresa stroked his arm. "I know," she whispered, sliding to her knees on the bed. "It's all right, Ryan."

"I forgot." Ryan swallowed hard, gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry . . . I forgot it would be like this for you. God, Theresa, you should have told me to stop . . ."

"I didn't want you to stop." Cupping Ryan's face, Theresa forced him to look at her.

He blinked, wondering at her expression—amused and wise and shy all at once. "Then I didn't . . . it didn't hurt?

"It hurt," Theresa admitted. His eyes darkened with guilt and she added hastily, "But not the whole time." Burrowing closer, she kissed a tender line down Ryan's throat to his chest. "Some of it felt . . . good."

"Yeah?"

Theresa pulled away just enough to nod and smile. "Really good."

Ryan slid back on the bed and pulled Theresa onto his lap, angling them so that the bloodstain wasn't in view. It reminded him of things that shouldn't be in this room, in this moment, with them. Shame and violence and despair—things he was determined would never touch Theresa. Not if he could stop them.

"So how good exactly?" he prompted, nuzzling her neck. "Really, really good?"

Theresa sighed happily. "Really, really, really good," she murmured.

"Good enough to maybe do it again sometime?"

"Definitely."

Kissing Theresa's shoulder, Ryan eased them both back against the headboard. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, feeling the air begin to cool around them.

"So . . . this changes everything, doesn't it?" Despite his attempt to prevent it, a note of farewell seeped into Ryan's voice.

Theresa peered up at him, curious and concerned. "I don't know," she replied thoughtfully. "Only if we let it, I think. We're still friends. Forever friends. But Ryan . . . I'm glad it was you."

Ryan traced the line of her cheek down to her chin, lifted her mouth for his kiss. "I'm glad it was you too."

Reality was insinuating itself into his consciousness. He couldn't block any of it out: the forgotten throbbing of his damaged cheek, the bang of his own front door as it slammed, Frankie's voice yelling, "I said I'd call you tomorrow, Dawnie! Fuck, whaddya want from me, bitch?", the clock, ticking off seconds until Theresa's mother returned, until Ryan had to go home, until Trey came to gather his belongings and dissect both their lives, until . . . until . . .

Inevitably, he would have to face it again, the hopeless predictability of his life. But, Ryan thought, this was real too: Theresa cuddled, warm and content in his arms.

He would hold her and this moment as long as he could.


	12. 11: Ryan's First Drink

The First Time: Ryan's First Drink 

The first time Ryan got drunk, he made his father laugh and his mother cry.

He made himself proud, giddy and scared. And, finally, sick in every way possible.

For eight days, the temperature in Fresno spiked near one hundred degrees. Inside the Atwood house, heat swelled, like something alive but already decaying. It swallowed the air, suffocating everyone slowly, relentlessly.

Ryan lay flat on the living room floor, his short limbs splayed, his damp flesh glued to the once-cool linoleum. Idly, he rubbed the blade of a broken fan with one thumb while he studied a water stain above his head. The spot reshaped itself whenever he blinked. Maybe it was a beanstalk, like Jack's, or a swarm of deadly dinosaur-birds. Or it could be a school of fish, slip-swimming through their undersea world. Ryan couldn't be sure. He wanted to ask Trey what the blotch looked like, but all afternoon his brother had distanced himself, coiled in a quiet that warned 'keep away.' Straddling a wooden chair, he faced the window. His ragged nails chipped bits of loose paint off the ledge, and one toe restively pounded the floorboard.

In that mood, Trey wouldn't see anything but an ugly stain. If he even looked.

Beside Ryan, Dawn sprawled the length of the faded couch. One bare leg dangled from the front while the other stretched long, its heel propped on the armrest. Only her eyes appeared alive. Hungry and hazy-blue, they devoured the TV screen where a woman was rushing into a man's open arms. As the couple embraced, bodies crushed breathlessly together, Dawn's lips parted, mirroring theirs. All alone, she whispered an unanswered kiss into the air.

Ryan caught his breath. Rolling onto his side, he edged closer, straining to see her entire face. It stung, like ripping off a Band-aid, when his skin peeled away from the floor, hurt more when he recognized his mother's expression: rapt, and lonely, and so far away.

Lost, almost, but not even trying to find her way home.

The figures on the show stumbled toward a bed and as Ryan watched, Dawn's mouth opened wider. Her pink tongue slithered over her teeth when the couple collapsed, melting in slow motion onto the cream-white comforter. Dozens of pillows, all the shades of blushing flesh, tumbled as they fell.

Ryan squirmed, his skin prickling. The people looked sticky to him, but glossy, taut pillows promised to be cool. Not like his own, all sweat-stained and wrinkled.

"Ahhhh." Exhaling slowly, Dawn inclined her head for a better view of the screen. The music swelled to a climax and she fell back, one palm stroking the arch of her throat. "That Sonny is so . . . so . . . Ooooh, God, I just love him."

Something twisted inside Ryan, under the spot on his tummy that his mother rubbed when he was sick. The question crept out, ashamed. "Mommy? Who's Sonny?"

Trey answered, his voice rusty with disuse. Without turning around, he tossed some white paint flakes to the floor. "Nobody. Big surprise, huh?" he sneered. "The guy's made up, Ry. He's just some stupidass--"

Dawn waved a shushing hand, and he clamped his mouth closed.

"Sonny!" she exclaimed. Ignoring Trey, she pushed herself up to peer at Ryan. "On the show, baby! Weren't you watching? He just saved Brenda's life, and now they . . . well, hell, I guess you don't need to know what happens next." She laughed to herself, a sound like a lock turning. Lazily, she retrieved her cigarette, taking a deep drag before she spoke again. "Know what, Ry? If you'd been a girl, I was gonna name you Brenda. And she wasn't even on the show when you were born! But it's a real pretty name, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh," Ryan murmured uncertainly.

Trey didn't move, but a derisive snicker puckered his lips.

"Yeah, smart guy? Think that's funny? Well, you woulda been Erica. Erica Ashley Atwood." Dawn palmed strands of lank hair off her face. Her smile seeped away, and her voice quavered, liquid with regret. "Damn," she muttered, flicking ashes to the floor. "Why couldn't I have had girls? We woulda had so much fun. Shopping, doing each other's hair, trying new makeup, painting our nails . . ."

Ryan studied his fingers, grimy and scabbed from a fall off Trey's handlebars. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down on it hard. "Mommy?" he ventured. "Can't you have fun with boys?"

"Shit, LB!" Trey exclaimed. "What a dumbass question. Stop bein' five, would you?"

Embarrassed, Ryan averted his face. "I can't," he mumbled, twisting the strap of his mother's discarded sandal. "Not until my next birthday."

"Then just stop being a dumbass baby, all right?" Slurping the last of his lukewarm Kool-Aid, Trey tossed the Dixie cup at his brother. It bounced off Ryan's forehead, splattering his bangs with crimson drops.

The surprise attack wrenched Dawn's attention from her fantasy. "Goddamn it, Trey!" she snapped. "Leave your bother alone! And you, baby, don't you listen to him. You are not a dumbass." Without stirring from the couch, she stretched until her toes tickled the sole of Ryan's bare foot. Giggling, he wriggled a scant inch away. His mother's leg pursued him, feather-brushing his skin as he squirmed, delighted.

Across the room, Trey snorted disdainfully and Ryan froze. His smile folded in on itself and he pressed his thumb hard against the edge of the fan, denting the tender flesh.

The scene on TV changed. Forgetting the game, forgetting everything, Dawn settled back to watch. Instantly lonely, Ryan realized that she never answered his question.

"Mom--" he began again. "Are you sorry? I mean, that you had Trey and me?"

Oblivious, his mother puffed her cigarette, peering past him to the TV. "You know what this show should have?" she demanded. Behind a tattered curtain of smoke her eyes danced with excitement. "A character named Dawn. She could be Sonny's girlfriend. Dawn and Sonny! That would be cute, wouldn't it? Huh, boys? Whaddya think?"

"Who cares? It's a fucking soap opera, Mom." Swallowing a yawn, Trey shook his head. "If they had a Dawn, it wouldn't be you."

"Hey! What've I told you about swearing, Trey? And shit, I'm not stupid. I know wouldn't be me. I just said it would be cute. You know, 'cause of the names . . ." Her voice drifted off as the final scene faded. "Aw. Show's over." Sighing her loss, Dawn stabbed out her cigarette. She picked up the remote, aimed it and pressed, her sweaty fingertip slipping off the power button. Nothing happened. "Goddamn it," she grumbled, punching harder and jabbing her arm forward for emphasis.

Trey shot a weary look at his mother. "Battery's dead," he said dully. "Remember? It didn't work this morning either."

"Oh. Yeah, right." Dawn fumbled for another Marlboro. "Jeez, it's hot," she muttered, nudging Ryan with her big toe. "Baby, turn off the TV for mama, okay?"

"But Trey and me wanna watch cartoons--" Irritation flashed on his mother's face, hot as the flame snapping from her lighter, and Ryan bit back his protest. He scooted forward, bare knees burning on the linoleum, and pushed the off button on the TV.

The screen sizzled and went black. Without its pretense of other lives to provide a buoy, waves of heat threatened to engulf them all.

"I need somethin' cold to drink." Dawn announced abruptly. "And some air! Shit, anywhere's gotta be cooler than this oven. Come on, boys. Let's go out on the porch."

Trey didn't budge. "Not supposed to go out," he mumbled. "Dad said, remember?"

Ryan remembered. Yesterday Trey had gotten caught shoplifting some and a three-pack of HotWheels from the corner store. It had cost him a backhanded blow to the cheek when their father found out, and orders to stay in the house until . . .

The sentence dangled there, unfinished and menacing.

"Yeah? Well I said we're goin' out. Why should I have to suffer just 'cause you can't keep out of trouble for five goddamn minutes? Anyway, you're goin' anywhere that matters." Dawn mopped her forehead. A few strands of hair clung to the damp skin, like lines on a map leading nowhere. Swaying slightly, she pushed herself up and shambled across the room.

Ryan lingered, glancing sideways at his brother. Chewing his chapped lower lip, Trey finally shrugged and forced himself to his feet. Both boys trailed Dawn to the kitchen. They waited while she emptied slivers of ice into a glass, added Kool-Aid, and topped it with some clear liquid. Not water, though, Ryan guessed, because this came in a funny screw-top bottle that his parents stored way up on the top shelf.

It seemed almost like a fairytale's magic potion: harmless in appearance but scary-powerful.

Except he knew—Trey had told him—that magic didn't exist in real life. Only babies and retards believed that it could.

Still Ryan sucked in his lower lip, wondering, while his mother drank. Sighing deeply, Dawn swallowed and lapped lingering drops from the corners of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered closed and she purred, stretching like a cat.

A light seemed to go on under her skin.

Trey shifted unhappily in the doorway. "Shit, that's enough. C'mon, Mom," he muttered.

"Okay, okay. Jeez, kiddo." Dawn flung back her head. Her face glowed suddenly—sapphire eyes, coral lips, cheeks pink as a promise, skin shining a luminous white. "I'm just havin' one little drink-y here. What's the big deal anyway?"

"It's Dad's bottle. And he'll be home soon."

The words sucked any ease out of the room. Above Ryan's head, Trey and Dawn exchanged a private look, like a coded note that he couldn't read. Troubled, he edged closer until his fingers grazed the hem of his mother's denim shorts.

"Mommy?" he breathed.

Without a word, Dawn turned on the tap and replaced the liquid she'd poured from the bottle. Then she shoved it in the cabinet and slammed the door. It bounced open again instantly. "Satisfied, Trey?" she snapped as she headed for the porch. Snagging Ryan's elbow, she dragged him behind her.

Her nails pinched and she nearly yanked him off his feet.

Ryan didn't know why she had to walk so fast or clutch him so furiously. He would have gone with her anyway.

He would have held her hand.

His eyes, clouded with questions, sought his brother. Trey shrugged, his "don't know and don't give a fuck" gesture, but he stood on tiptoe to latch the cabinet door before he followed too.

Once outside, Dawn collapsed on the battered glider, slouching so that she took all the available space. With nowhere else to sit, Ryan and Trey crouched on the top step. Heat wedged between them, solid as another whole body, but the tips of their little fingers still managed to touch, flat on the splintered wood.

There was nothing to say. They just waited.

Out of nowhere, a series of sputtering pops erupted. Ryan jerked upright, his mouth a speechless O.

"Damn," Dawn moaned. Her nails raked the air as she covered her eyes. "Don't tell me they're starting that shit already."

"What? What is it?" Ryan whispered. The sounds produced echoes of manic laughter. They beckoned like a leering clown, and Ryan's fingers clutched the rough edge of the porch even as he rocked forward.

Before Trey could answer, a rusted convertible careened around the corner. Immediately, Dawn sat up, draining the last of her drink and swiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A practiced smile, stained with Kool-Aid, flashed nervously into place.

"Hi, hon!" she trilled, as Ryan's father swung out of the car. "You're home early. That's . . . it's great. We were just out here waitin' for you."

Her husband's back hunched as he spoke to the driver. "Gimme five minutes here," he ordered. Then, the thick soles of his boots announcing each step, he strode up the sidewalk, carelessly kicking Trey's bike out of his way.

Beside Ryan, his brother flinched. Trey's cheeks flushed a mottled crimson, the color of remembered wounds, and he scrambled to his feet. "Dad--" he faltered. The single syllable, clumsy with fear, tripped on itself as he took a step toward the house.

Watching, Ryan tensed. He tasted stolen chocolate, felt tiny wheels spinning on the racetrack of his thighs.

Even though he hadn't been in the store he was a thief too, really. But only Trey had gotten caught, gotten hit.

It wasn't fair.

Breathing hard, Ryan started to stand with his brother but Trey's fist, braced against his shoulder, held him in place.

"Don't," he hissed.

Three feet from the steps, their father paused. The shadow of a tree limb bisected his face, leaving half of it light, half masked in darkness. "Hey there! Trey-guy!" he called, starting a backswing. "Incoming! Heads up!"

Automatically, Trey raised one hand and a bag smacked into his open palm. He stared at it, one jaw muscle pulsing in his shuttered face.

Ryan's father chortled. "The fuck, kid? Think there's a snake in there or something? It's candy, that's all, gift from your old man. Open it, for crap's sake."

"Candy?" Trey echoed blankly. He peered into the bag, and his lips crept into a small, bemused grin. "Hey! Skittles! Thanks, Dad."

All at once, the weather seemed to change, heavy heat lifting, a timid air current drifting from the sidewalk. Dawn's wind chimes, a cascade of beaming suns, nodded to each other smugly.

Ryan's eyes widened, shining a newborn blue, as Trey shook a rainbow of candy into his hand. Peeking up from under his lashes, he smiled solemnly. "Thanks, Daddy," he whispered.

Across the porch, Dawn fluffed her matted bangs. "Aw, babe, that's real sweet, bringin' something home for the boys . . . So, you . . . um, you had a good day at work, huh?"

"Didn't go to work," Ryan's dad muttered. "Fucking boss thinks just because he signs the goddamn checks that he's better than me." His face creased in anger, but it smoothed again instantly. Lifting his chin, he stepped into the sunshine. "Nah, I took the day off, Dawnie. Went to the track, won a few bucks. Hell, it's a holiday, ain't it? So I was thinkin', we should all go to the park tonight. Whaddya say? Have a picnic, watch the fireworks, enjoy ourselves for a change."

Her hand fluttering uncertainly, Dawn risked a glance at the idling car. Catching the look, her husband shrugged. "Hey, I'm just gonna make a quick beer run with Carl first. Be back in an hour, and then we'll go. The rest of the damn country is celebrating. Why not us, right?"

"Right." Dawn inhaled an eager breath. "Right, why not us?" Fingering the tarnished hoops at her ears, she added, as if it were a trick question, "You mean the whole family, right babe? All four of us?"

"Fuck yeah, the whole family." Abruptly, his father spun around to Ryan. "Whaddya think, Ry? Fireworks! Not those shitty things Trey played with last year either." With a surge of enthusiasm, he lunged forward, swooping Ryan up, up, over his head and onto his shoulders. "Real fireworks! Huge ones! All different colors!"

Perched closer to heaven than he'd ever been before, Ryan laughed and curled pudgy fingers into his father's hair. He wasn't sure what that meant—fireworks—but his mother's face glowed the giddy pink of excitement and even Trey's eyes sparkled before he hooded them.

"Really, Dad?" Without looking, Trey swatted a mosquito that landed on his knee, smearing his skin with the insect's mangled body and his own blood.

Dawn swung off the glider, kicking her glass out of the way as she did. "Of course really!" she cried. "We'll have a picnic. I'll make sandwiches—I think I still got some lunchmeat—and hard-boiled eggs. Oh, and potato salad! Well, maybe we'll just have chips. Barbecue flavor. Your favorite, right Trey? Just like your dad's."

"I guess," Trey conceded. Hope glimmered behind his eyes, like a distant light. "Fireworks would be cool, Dad. But, um . . ." Averting his face, he mumbled so that Ryan could barely hear, "You said we'd go last year."

"Yeah? And now I'm sayin' this year, wiseguy. You gonna believe your old man or not?"

Clasping Ryan's ankles, his father snorted. He lowered his head, pawing the ground like a bull until Ryan shrieked, dizzy with delighted fear, and they charged Trey together. His grip tightened reflexively. Intent on watching his brother somersault to safety, he gasped, stunned, when his father cursed, whipped him overhead and dropped him down to the splintered porch floor.

It hurt, all of it: the violent plunge and cruel landing and the bewilderment.

"Fucking hell, Ry! You're what, six or something? You have to behave like some goddamn little girl?"

Confused, Ryan crept close to Trey. From behind his lashes, his gaze darted to his dad. The man was scrubbing his scalp, erasing all traces of his son's touch. Instantly, Ryan lowered his eyes again. "What did I do?" he whispered, lost.

Trey hunched one shoulder. "Held on too tight, bro. Jeez, how many times I tell you? Dad fuckin' hates that."

"I didn't mean to." Swallowing hard, Ryan shrank against the glider. His leg stung where stubble had scraped. Unconsciously, he rubbed the line of pinpricks before he snatched his hand away, catching his lower lip in his teeth.

It didn't hurt much, he told himself.

Anyway, he deserved it for acting like some damn little girl. Who had maybe ruined everything.

That moment of happiness, suspended and heady, had made him forget: his father's good moods were always balloons, bright and buoyant, and so easy to break.

Not quite trusting his voice, Ryan said carefully, "Sorry, Daddy." Something sounded wrong, and he amended, "Dad." There, that was the word he wanted. Emboldened, he edged toward his father, but Trey caught his t-shirt, fingers drumming a familiar warning.

Ryan's father shrugged, deflated. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Ry . . . Where the hell are my cigarettes? Dawn, you got my goddamn smokes?"

Dawn patted the pockets of her skintight shorts. "No, babe. But I got a brand-new pack inside. Want me to get it for you?" she offered hopefully.

"Nah. I'll fucking do it myself."

The screen door bounced twice on its hinges as it slammed behind Ryan's dad.

Outside, his family waited like actors in the wings. Slouching against the wall, Trey gnawed caked chocolate from under his fingernails. Dawn picked up her discarded glass, running a thumb around the lip, then licking any stray drops she collected. Next to her, Ryan crouched in a sliver of shade. Arms locked around his knees, he rocked slightly, staring at the closed door.

He was trying to remember a spell he had heard, a phrase that would open any door.

Except, no.

That was in some fairytale. Not in real life at all.

Ryan reminded himself: there were no magic wands, or potions or words. No enchantments at all.

Just sometimes his dad, eyes crinkled with laughter, jogging backwards, challenging Ryan and Trey to keep up, pacing himself to stay in eyesight.

Calling them his boys. His sons.

And sounding proud, even.

Sometimes

For Ryan, the wait seemed to last forever, but after four minutes his father reemerged. Bare-chested and dripping cold water, he had a clean t-shirt slung over his shoulder and a pack of cigarettes clutched in one fist. As he strode past his wife, he grabbed Dawn, hauling her unceremoniously into his arms.

Gasping, she lifted her face to meet his.

Their kiss didn't look anything like the one Ryan had seen her rehearse earlier. This was rough and sloppy, all groans and mashed lips and grinding jaws and spit.

An irritated yell from the curb ended it abruptly. "Hey, Atwood! You comin' or what? I'm fucking burnin' up here!"

"Back in one hour," Ryan's dad muttered into Dawn's open mouth. Pulling away, he yanked his t-shirt on and vaulted off the porch.

He never looked at Ryan or Trey.

Dawn's fingers fluttered to her pale face, patting her puffy lips. "I'll fix myself up while you're gone, babe!" she called. "We'll be ready when you get back, okay?"

In response, the convertible roared as it peeled away.

For a moment Dawn stood, watching the car disappear. "Okay" she murmured. Her voice brightened in streaks, like scoured metal, as she turned to her sons. "Okay! Let's go, guys! You gotta wash up and change. C'mon, move, move, move!"

"Why?" Trey demanded dully. "He's not really gonna take us."

"Sure he is!"

His mouth twisting, Trey shrugged a jaded "Whatever."

"Not whatever!" Dawn retorted fiercely. "He's gonna do it this time. Shit, Trey, it's not like your dad never took us before."

Ryan titled his head, wondering. "He did?"

"Course he did, baby. Tell your brother, Trey!" When he didn't respond, Dawn prodded his arm insistently. "Come on, kiddo. You were, what, seven, when we went. Remember we couldn't believe how Ry slept through all the crazy noise? But you—every time there was another boom, you'd stamp your feet and just roar, roar right back at it. And your daddy laughed. He laughed so hard . . ." Her breath hitched and Dawn rubbed her eyes. "God," she sighed, "that was such a good day . . . But hey, now we're gonna have another one. So go! Let's get ready!"

Herding them inside with tiny swats, Dawn trilled bits of a song about picnics and surry and sassafrass. It sounded silly to Ryan, and maybe it was, because his mother giggled between off-key notes. She stopped to shoo both boys into the bathroom. "With soap," she warned sternly, but she winked, so really, Ryan decided, she wasn't mad.

"Trey?" he asked as soon as the door was closed. "Why was Daddy . . . Dad . . . acting so, um . . .?" He didn't know how to describe it, his father's heat lightning mood.

Shrugging, Trey took aim at the toilet. "It's the Fourth of July."

"Oh." Ryan considered the words as he lathered his hands, but they didn't mean anything. "Why would that make Dad excited?"

Trey tucked himself in and wiggled his fingers under the tap. "I told you, LB, it's the fourth of July."

"Uh-huh. Only--?"

With a snort, Trey flicked water at Ryan, who hopped back to escape the spray. "It's like the country's lameass birthday, all right?" he explained. "Like a big stupid party for America. Jeez, Why-an, do you got to know everything?"

Ryan ducked his head, hiding the hurt behind his lashes. "Why-an" was Trey's latest nickname for him. Slurring the syllables into a single "whine," he mocked all Ryan's questions, his disappointment when no one answered, the times he still lapsed into a baby lisp.

"Not everything," Ryan replied stubbornly. He studied the bubbles playing tag on his wrists. "But I like to know stuff. Don't you, Trey?"

"Shit, Ry. Knowing stuff is for school, and who gives a rat's ass about that? I like to do stuff and have stuff." His gaze narrowing, Trey stared out the window, over Ryan's head. "That's what matters."

"Oh."

Puzzled, Ryan lingered at the sink until the last froth of soapsuds swirled down the drain. He wanted to argue, but he wasn't sure what to say.

Besides, Trey would probably just call him Why-an again.

As soon as they changed both boys camped on the couch. Perched on opposite ends, they watched Dawn flit between rooms, transforming herself. Once a dozen hot rollers bobbled on her head. Another time, she teetered on her heels, holding cotton balls wadded between her toes. Later, she stumbled past, peeling away a green mask like an alien face.

Trey snickered, but Ryan squirmed as his mother's soft curves and pastels and dewy skin disappeared bit by bit.

She changed so much just to please his father.

Finally Dawn emerged, all lacquered and sprayed. Twirling, she caroled a triumphant, "Tada!" Her hair bristled with stiff, forbidding curls, and she was slashed red everywhere: cheekbones and lips and the tips of her fingers and toes. Even her ankles were sliced by the scarlet straps of her shoes.

Looking at her, Ryan winced inside.

"So guys?" Dawn demanded. "Whaddya think? Your mama cleans up real good, doesn't she?" Without pausing for any reply, she nudged Trey off the couch and sat down sideways, curling her legs up next to her. Sighing, she massaged one instep. "Damn heels hurt like a bitch, but hey, your daddy likes them. And I'll take 'em off anyway when we get to the park."

"When we get to the park."

She made the words sound like magic, Ryan thought.

Dawn turned on Wheel of Fortune, filling the room with faraway excitement, but as soon as the show ended, she made Trey switch off the TV. "We should be all set to go when your daddy gets home," she explained. "He'll be here any minute."

Only the minutes crawled past, five and then ten, and then a half-hour, and then two more.

Sometime, he wasn't sure when, Ryan fell asleep, curled in a corner of the sofa, lulled by the clink of ice in his mother's glass.

He woke up whimpering, pursued out of his dream by goring horns and sharp hooves. It took him a moment to recognize where he was: home, wedged next his mother who sprawled like a rag doll, her head lolling sideways, all the bright colors on her face smeared and dull.

"Trey?" Ryan whispered, searching for his brother. Shifting slightly, he dislodged a spike heel that poked into his side. "Trey? Dad's not gonna take us to the park tonight, is he?"

At the window, Trey groaned wearily. Without looking, he stabbed another hole into the pockmarked screen. "Duh," he scoffed. "Ya don't think? Shit, LB, sometimes I swear--"

Trey stopped. He seemed to debate saying something more, but at last he just shambled wordlessly out of the room.

On the way, he paused, grimacing, to drain Dawn's half-empty glass and to kick a stray cushion under the coffee table.

Left alone, Ryan sat still for a moment, his eyes old and empty. Then, very carefully, he edged off of the couch. Retrieving the pillow, he smoothed it, tucked it gently beneath his mother's feet, and wandered into the kitchen.

He was thirsty. Hungry too. And there was the picnic basket—well, the grocery bag—that his mom had prepared, crammed with foil-wrapped sandwiches and a big bag of chips. His mouth watering, Ryan started to reach inside when he noticed two other items on the table: a sweaty jar of Kool-Aid and, next to it, the bottle from the top shelf.

Just standing there, open.

Ryan hesitated, sucking his lower lip.

He really, really, wanted something to drink.

And maybe just this one time it would be okay . . .

Except that stuff was supposed to be for adults, not for kids.

But then he remembered: _"Would you stop being five?" "Do you have to act like some damn little girl?"_

Ryan could be grown-up if he tried.

Resolutely, before he could change his mind, Ryan got a glass from the sink. Using both hands, almost holding his breath, he poured in Kool-Aid and then added a splash of the mysterious liquid, just like his mother did.

The concoction sparkled like normal fruit punch, and, suddenly parched, Ryan forgot about sipping. He simply filled his mouth and swallowed.

Waves of flame instantly flooded his throat.

Choking, his eyes stinging with tears, Ryan gulped a lungful of air, trying to quench the fire. It didn't work. The blaze raged down to his stomach and up again, staggering him so that he nearly fell.

Somehow, though, he kept his grip on the glass.

He wanted to empty the contents down the sink or maybe back into the Kool-Aid container. Only . . . he couldn't. His dad wouldn't and neither would Dawn. Even Trey, Ryan knew, would finish the drink no matter how much it burned, and he wasn't so much older than Ryan, really.

Besides, beneath the bitterness, something tasted sweet, something that tingled and buzzed all the way to his fingertips.

Panting shallowly, Ryan braced himself. Then, sipping very slowly, mere drops at a time, he drained the entire glass.

The liquid still scalded, but somehow it made him smile too.

"Hey, LB? You getting' something to eat in there?"

Startled, Ryan spun around. His gasped, and his mouth filled with saliva, but when he swallowed, bubbles bounced down, popping back up again in a barrage of hiccups.

Like tiny firecrackers erupting inside him.

Ryan wanted to laugh, but he couldn't catch his breath. He swayed, squinting around the room, wondering why the walls kept moving. "Trey?" he stammered uncertainly.

His brother looked strange, like some blurry cartoon. Curious, Ryan reached a finger to confirm that he was real, rocking forward and back, before he slipped limply to the floor.

"Shit, LB!" Trey's voice pulsed, far away, and then right beside Ryan's ear. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothin'. I. I just. I." Clutching the chair next to him with both hands, Ryan stopped, bewildered. The inferno inside him had abated, becoming a fluttering glow, as though he had swallowed a hundred fireflies. He opened his mouth to release the one on his tongue and another hiccup skipped out. It tickled, and Ryan giggled helplessly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Trey groaned, prying Ryan away from the table. "You're drunk, Ry. Shit, Mom's gonna kill me."

That didn't make sense—why would Dawn want to kill Trey?--but Ryan didn't care because "fuckfuckfuck," sounded so funny. His head bobbing with effort, he mimicked the words, but their final consonant stuck on the roof of his mouth, so all he could manage was "fuhfuhfuhfuff."

Dawn stirred on the couch and sat up blearily. "Wha—wha' time is it?" she murmured. "Trey? Ryan? Hey, where are you guys?"

"Mommy?" Crawling from the kitchen, Ryan cuddled against his mother's leg. "I love you Mommy," he murmured. "Fuh. Fuck."

Dawn stiffened. "Baby?" she prompted anxiously. Cupping Ryan's chin, she tilted his head to peer into his eyes. He blinked, trying to focus, while she stroked his clammy cheek.

For some reason, his mother's touch made him shudder. Still, Ryan couldn't pull away, even when she let go.

Suddenly everything began melting together, strident voices, and sobs, and slamming doors, and from somewhere the clump of his father's boots and mocking laughter, and something sour was rolling around Ryan's stomach, and something else was pounding inside his skull.

"Goddamn it, Trey! Ryan's five! He's a baby! Why weren't you lookin' out for him? What kind of brother are you anyway?"

"Me? You're his mother! Anyway, Ry did it himself. I wasn't even there."

"Not even there," Ryan mumbled.

"Aw hell, Dawnie, so the little shit's drunk. Won't be the last time. Get me something to eat, why don't you? And get that kid outta here before he pukes."

And then Ryan felt himself flying and water flowing over his face and everything inside him swirling the wrong way and the burning began all over again, only this time it tasted even worse as it spewed out of his mouth. And then darkness swallowed him whole.

Someone nudged Ryan, prodding him out of a dream.

"Come on, LB," Trey urged.

"Huh?"

"The fireworks. Come on. You can see 'em."

"Don' wanna," Ryan moaned, burrowing into his pillow.

"Yeah," his brother insisted. "You do."

Despite Ryan's groans, Trey pulled him out of bed, puppet-walking him to the window, propping him up with his own body.

"Look, Ry," he ordered, forcing Ryan's head back up when it drooped.

There was a muffled boom, and Ryan blinked, first scared and then dazzled.

Everything hurt, but he couldn't look away.

High above the treetops, tendrils of redblueyellowwhite bloomed against the night sky. Impossibly beautiful, they beckoned, like laughter, like secrets, like starlit promises. And then, as Ryan's fingers grabbed the empty air, trying desperately to hold onto something, they vanished.

That had to be magic, didn't it?

"See, LB?" Trey flicked a dead fly off the windowsill. "We didn't miss nothin', not going with dad tonight. Just some stupidass noise and lights, that's all. Figured that you should know."

Releasing his brother, Trey shuffled back to bed, but Ryan lingered. Eyes wide with wonder, he watched a thread of smoke ghost over the rooftops.

Then even that disappeared, leaving only darkness and doubt and unanswered questions behind.


End file.
